Perry Mason TCOT Admirable Admirer
by DNPLC
Summary: Chapter 8. Harlan Wade isn't the only one threatening the privacy of Della Street and Perry Mason. Perry goes to the mattresses trying to discover who breeched their privacy for almost 30 years. All clues lead to an epic betrayal; a betrayal that Della Street refuses to accept.
1. Chapter 1

_**April, 1987**_

_**Denver, Colorado**_

Perry Mason walked over to Della Street and took her elbow, just as she was about to pop a shrimp in her mouth.

"Young lady, I think we've enjoyed this extraordinary event long enough."

Della was nonplussed, and hungry, but she followed open-mouthed as he dragged her across the manicured lawns to their car, which he had insisted the valet keep easily accessible. Perry Mason often knew, or at least suspected, what was going to happen long before it actually happened.

Della knew after all of these years not to question him when he was this angry. Later, perhaps, she could ask him what happened. One thing worried her, though. While she couldn't imagine how it was possible, Della Street only saw Perry Mason this angry when her safety was at stake.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Wednesday, December 24**__**th**__**, 1952**_

_**Los Angeles, CA**_

For almost two years he had been waiting.

Sometimes he was in hotel room closets, or skulking around the balcony next to of their office building when they worked into the night, or balancing on the rail of his apartment building (which he had given up on since it was clear he was not the kind of man who would ever have a woman like that leave his place early in the morning.)

The secretary's place was easier. She had a nice couple of balconies, although he usually ended up watching them from behind a clump of bushes as he dropped her off at her building, walked her to do her door and came back out not long after.

When he did stay for a few hours, Ike "The Eye" Isaccs would climb the fire escape, camera around his neck, waiting for them to commit some act his boss could use; or whatever it was he intended to do with the pictures once The Eye could finally deliver the goods.

In almost two years it had never happened.

What was wrong with these two anyway? They were grown adults.

Mr. Big Shot attorney with his suave manner and slick smile; a guy like that with a beauty like her, clearly in love with him, and he didn't seem to know what to do with her. Mason was in the columns few times a month for one reason or another and often it involved some dame. He and that shamus of his sure could kick up some dust when they wanted.

With this girl, however, he was a real gentleman. Tonight was probably going to be another night just like the last two years. On the other hand, maybe since it was the holidays and they had been to yet another office Christmas party—one of many he seemed to throw—maybe…

The Eye was the best in the business. But someone had to actually do something for him to capture it, clandestinely, on film.

It occurred to Ike that his boss, whoever the Hell this guy was who was paying the bill, was barking up the wrong damn tree with these two and he insinuated as much on the phone one day when the guy was giving him a hard time for not coming through with anything.

Icy, low, the disembodied voice on the other end of the phone told him to mind his own business or else.

He didn't like the sound of the _or else. _The Eye saw through it to its real meaning.

So, what the Hell? This kind of money, even for the best in the business, was once-in-a-lifetime. What did he care how long it took as long as those crisp, cool stacks of 1,000s kept coming his way?

One thing worried The Eye, however. When this guy said this was a "lifetime" job, he was afraid that he meant just that.

_**-The Eye-1952-**_

Finally! This damn balcony was cold tonight and he was relieved to see them home. Licking his thick lips, he was too enchanted with her to lift his lens yet, and just watched as she swept through the door a vision in emerald green. She had on one of those two-piece evening jobs, a satin swing coat with a cinch-waist dress with a full skirt.

The dress turned out to be sleeveless and lifting off her coat, the attorney revealed his secretary's snowy white shoulders and cleavage, almost modest but not quite; not quite immodest, either. They were both looser than usual, he could see the effects of alcohol from across the room. But was it enough he wondered?

As she walked to her Christmas tree and plugged in the lights it was clear they were both too sober for anything to happen that way.

Then he spotted it. The little item that was going to do the trick for him on this cold Christmas Eve! Ike snorted to a pigeon shivering nearby.

In the end a dame was a dame.

With her slender fingers, the secretary was fingering an emerald and diamond sparkler hanging around her neck and smiling at her boss. Putting an arm around his neck, she kissed him delicately on the lips. Merry Christmas, baby, thought Ike. Come to papa.

Walking over to the radio the secretary turned a dial and he could hear Ella Fitzgerald singing "What Are You Doing New Year's Eve?"

They were flirting now, something about New Year's and a date. His eyes went wide and he smirked, while she batted her eyes, looking away. Then they both laughed. Ike could make out voices and a word here or there but not the whole text.

Then he did something that made the photographer's heart sink. Going to the bar the attorney poured them two short cognacs—that was Ike's guess anyway.

"Boy we could sure use as couple of those, huh bird?" he said smacking his lips again.

The pigeon, sensing there must be better company out there somewhere, flew away—after showing Ike's hat exactly what the bird thought of him.

While Ike had been trying to clean bird litter off his hat the secretary disappeared. Watching as the attorney untied his bow tie and the first two buttons of his shirt then lit a cigarette, it looked as if he _and_ The Eye fully expected her to return in a negligee.

Instead she came out still in her dress with an overstuffed, hand-knit stocking. Glancing over her raised shoulder, she winked at him as she hung the stocking over her white stone mantel. A towering man with a horizon of shoulder, he sat there as excited as a little kid as she took a gorgeously wrapped package from beneath the boughs and placed it lovingly in his hands.

Were there really still women like this?

When he opened the package, Mason's eyes went wide. Ike Isaccs couldn't figure it out—it looked like some beat up, old leather book to him but the guy handled it as if it was a newborn baby. The attorney turned the old thing over and over in his hands, leafing through the pages as gently as if they were the petals of a flower.

Well, books did that to some guys he guessed. Bourbon did it for The Eye and he hoped his wife, liking him a lot more lately with all of this cash coming in, remembered that tomorrow morning.

Before resting his lens again, he snapped a couple of quick shots as they snuggled on the couch, the attorney holding her in his arms, kissing her.

After a few minutes of this sickening chastity, the attorney seemed to be angling for his other package but the secretary shook her head. The big oaf went over to the tree now, bent down and shook the package against the floor making her laugh, although she still shook her head no.

Finally he walked over to her, holding out his open hand with a scowl. The secretary put her hand to her necklace. Give me back that necklace, it seemed to Ike he was saying and the girl laughed harder than ever in his serious face.

Ike started to laugh, too.

Pushing herself off the couch, her smile wide, she went to the tree and dragged the box, fairly large and clearly heavy, toward the attorney. Sitting on the floor Indian-style, the girl tugged on his pant leg and, with some effort, the lanky attorney collapsed his long legs next to her.

With no respect for the beautiful silver and red wrapping paper and shimmering green bows, he tore at the package until his enormous blue eyes lit up brighter than the lights on the tree!

"Lionel," The Eye read aloud.

A train! She got him a train! Suddenly The Eye was envious of a lot more than his shapely secretary's perfect figure and uncommon beauty.

As impressed as Mason seemed with that book, it was nothing compared to his joy at receiving the train. Looking at her, she nodded and he immediately opened the box. Together they crawled around on the floor, setting track around the tree, the attorney slapping his secretary's hand every now and then when he thought she had put something in the wrong place. At those times her smile grew so loving, so indulgent that The Eye thought this was the luckiest man on Earth.

_**-The Eye-1952-**_

Once they set the whole thing up, they had played with that train for hours. It was well past midnight when the secretary turned down the lights and curled up on his lap. Stroking her arm slowly they sat like that, watching the tree and listening to Christmas music on the radio, until they both dozed off.

Ike closed his eyes, too. When he opened them, they were gone.

"Dammit," thought The Eye getting ready to straddle the railings to reach her bedroom window.

Before he could move, though, the still fully dressed attorney came back into the living room. Kicking off his shoes, he removed his tuxedo jacket, folding it in half and laying it over the back of a chair. Then he pulled on his tie and lay that over his tux. Grabbing the blanket from the back of the sofa he stretched out throwing the blanket over his legs.

Sneaking back to the window, Isaccs scratched his head. Were these two for real?

A few minutes later out she came in a silk robe and low-heeled slippers, pillow under her arm. Sliding her hand under his head, she pushed the pillow beneath waking him in the process. After kissing a while, the attorney lifted the blanket and pulled his secretary down onto the couch with him. Curling around her from behind, they were asleep in minutes.

Ike "The Eye" Isaccs knew that his unknown employer was going to be angrier than ever but there was nothing to be done about it; unless he staged it with actors, which he was strictly warned against doing. Packing up his camera, he took one more look in the room and sighed at his bad luck.

The light of the Christmas tree cast a glow around the room as Perry Mason the young hot-shot attorney slept on the couch, holding his secretary sweetly, innocently, like two little kids who were just too tired to stay up and greet Santa.


	3. Chapter 3

_**July 12**__**th**__**, 1957**_

_**Los Angeles, CA**_

Damn that rich bastard. Damn him for moving up to the eighth floor. Hell, no one lived on the eighth floor in Los Angeles—not many apartment buildings in this town even had eight floors.

The Eye was coming to truly dislike this job. Although it was a lot easier to do now.

_When_ exactly the secretary had finally fallen, he couldn't say for sure. He suspected it wasn't long after that Christmas Eve he spent on her balcony in 1952—probably within days. Now, although he knew they were together a few nights a week, he couldn't catch them. The secretary was a little too quick on the draw with the curtains.

As Ike figured, the attorney never would let her stay over at his place. If they made dinner there, as they often did, there would be dancing, maybe a nightcap in front of the fire and some old fashioned petting. Invariably, the attorney would stand at a certain point—no matter how hard it was for him—lift her by the elbow, put her in her coat, then in the car and then in her apartment.

The Eye was in demand with both legitimate jobs and several more like this that precluded him from living outside their windows like a potted palm. When he told that to the guy he was working for—or as he suspected lately, the guy who was _working for_ the guy he was working for_—_he could feel ice over the phone.

Living as their full-time shadow was _exactly_ what this guy wanted. Ike still didn't get why and while he didn't owe these people a thing, he liked to know why people wanted his services. The more he knew, the longer he figured he'd live.

_**-The Eye 1957-**_

Valentine's Day, hoped The Eye, would provide the break in the case he needed. Following them that weekend for another trip to a lovely inn they frequented in Carmel—what the Hell, he brought along the wife and she was still thanking him for the swell time—Mason and his secretary made love and it was clear it wasn't for the first time.

They had goten good real fast, thought Ike.

Since then he had gotten more than enough of the material that had been requested. But the guy had said this was a "lifetime job" and apparently he meant it. Just keep taking the damn photos he was told last time he spoke with his contact.

They seemed like decent people—more than decent. To Ike The Eye Isaccs they seemed like good people, which he didn't come across often in his work. Occasionally they went out with other people but unless they were raising money for some cause or other, they stayed pretty much to themselves. They didn't seem to need anyone else most of the time.

At first The Eye thought the guy was just wanted dirt on the attorney, especially since his reputation had exploded in the last few years. A bona fide celebrity he was always in the news either for a case or as a legal expert, usually with the secretary. Then he didn't know what the guy wanted.

They were photogenic, that's for sure. The secretary was just hitting her stride as a beauty, he noticed with admiration, and was almost as much of a celebrity as her boss was. Everywhere she went the cameras were trained on her, in part because she could have been a model and in part because of what people expected was going on with this seemingly inseparable couple.

No one knew better than Ike how good they looked on film, how perfect they fit together walking down a hall with briefcases, swirling gracefully around a dance floor in evening clothes, or lying in bed… after, covered only by moonlight, a damp sheen and each other.

It was the mirror image thing they had going, he realized; their matching statuesque and long-limbed bodies, pronounced Irish heads covered with waves of thick dark hair, colorful eyes, his dark skin and her fresh, translucent complexion. Their eyebrows had the same arch, their sinewy fingers moved the same way.

Mason's brooding, hooded stare served him well in court, not out of it, but with a single, perfect, smile she could lighten his whole countenance. The Eye now recognized the special look each reserved only for the other; equal parts awe and joy, respect and adoration.

The secretary was a woman with a thousand expressions her face showing emotion the way a prism showed colors; every one known to mankind that changed depending on how she turned.

Mason his secretary wore very well-tailored clothes, seldom outrageously expensive and yet, because of their builds and attention to details they were always elegantly turned out. Ike had started dressing a bit better for watching them, giving his wife the green light to spend a little extra dough on her closet, too. What the Hell? They had it.

The Eye had caught Mason giving his secretary more than a few little boxes over the years but it would turn out they were usually modest, simple pieces of jewelry. The few grander pieces she wore very discreetly, judiciously even.

In April they had a row, or what passed for one in their world, when on her 35th birthday he gave her a diamond-encrusted Piaget watch in rose gold. Ike had to admit, it was the most dazzling piece of jewelry he had ever seen. But he also understood why she was so upset he could hear everything she said; words about seeming like a kept woman, and feeling like the round-heeled woman everyone was already starting to believe she was.

Ike almost felt bad for the big ape who just sat on the sofa, hands clasped and hanging between his knees looking deeply wounded as she paced back and forth in front of him until she stalked out of the room. As Ike stepped closer, the attorney rushed the balcony sliding open the door angrily and striking a match on the door jamb.

Panicking, Ike headed toward her window but there she stood forehead pressed to the glass, crying. Trapped between two people in enormous pain he felt dirty. Finally she walked away from her window and Ike moved toward it.

Wrapping her arms around his waist and laying her head against his back they were silent a moment.

"I should be able to give you things like this," the attorney threw his cigarette down, too angry to acknowledge her any other way.

"You can't give me a $10,000 watch Perry! And even if you could, even if I could accept it—and what you don't understand is that I want to very, very much—I couldn't wear it anywhere! It would mark me. I might just as well have a scarlet 'A' on my forehead," the secretary's voice was pragmatic now, no tears, no anger, just the straight shooter she seemed to be.

They all knew she was right, too.

To his credit, the attorney reached around and pulled his secretary's arm so she was in front of him.

"You can wear it around the house…" Ike thought he sounded like a little kid whose Mother was making him return her Mother's Day gift because they couldn't afford it—like his own mother had.

"This is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen and I'm so honored you want me to have it. I will wear it in the apartment tonight—feeling like a Princess, mind you—but tomorrow morning it goes back."

"And I get you that little watch you wanted…" the simp was still pouting but his better half, in Ike's opinion, just chuckled kindly.

"It's not so little…granted, it's not the crown jewels like this but the watch I want is no little thing, Perry Mason."

"Modest girl…"

Ike almost laughed out loud to see Mr. Big Shot kiss her on the nose. Instead The Eye left the secretary's balcony that night.

Not on her birthday.

_**-The Eye 1957-**_

Yessiree, bub, The Eye was beginning to lose his stomach for this particular job.

The next five years had just been covered, though. Returning home one night last week he opened his study safe to find a tight packet of 75 crisp 1,000-dollar bills that hadn't been there the day before. His wife said she was at their kids' school all day helping out so she had no idea if anyone had been around.

Ike went back to his desk, checking his secret hiding spot for the negatives. Thank God they were still there, untouched.

Someday those were either going to be his redeemer or his revenge—anybody's guess which one.


	4. Chapter 4

_**December, 1962**_

_**Los Angeles, CA**_

In the beginning, The Eye preferred not to know who had hired him for this job, or any of his jobs come to that. It was 1949, his reputation was growing and if the pay was healthy, the less he knew he figured the better off he would be.

These kinds of jobs got you more of these kinds of jobs. And it always got around, too, _the guy_ to call for one thing and another. By 1948 when you wanted a great photographer who could get in anywhere and couldn't have cared less _why _you wanted his services, Ike "The Eye" Isaacs was your man.

As it always was, his "success" was a double-edged sword.

The money was rich and delicious. But, if you accidentally started to grow one, your conscience took one hell of a beating.

Over the last few years he had become an uncharacteristically curious Eye. That's what happened when you took the risk of becoming human, you started questioning things and questions meant trouble; if not today, if not tomorrow, down the road then.

The Eye couldn't help it though. Who was paying all of this money to painstakingly chronicle the private lives of two people of modest celebrity, even if Mason did wield a significant and still growing amount of power?

And why?

Many evenings as Ike waited for them to show up he would tally the score trying to figure it out. Yes, she was a secretary and he was her boss and people always looked askance at that. Sure they were lovers, insatiable it seemed, and not married. But neither had ever been married to anyone else so there was no cheating. And they weren't kids anymore.

They were devoted to one another and everyone in their world seemed to know it. At work, in court, at events or out to dinner they never made a spectacle and remained, at all times, refined and dignified. Gossip columns even tread lightly on them—they were good people, raised a great deal of money for charity and didn't hypocritically comment on the lives of others.

Sure when Perry Mason de-flowered Della Street in the early 50s it would have been considered torrid and still today their affair would reflect badly on her—not him, of course, but her. But this level of surveillance was exceptional and seemed speculative in nature; as if whoever this was, was betting on Mason's future somehow.

This bothered Ike enormously because when and if these pictures—his pictures—ever went public, it would be Della Street who would have her entire life ruined. This didn't bother Ike in '49, not even in '55 but by 1962 he had definitely changed, or she had changed him, he wasn't sure which it was.

There was only one way it figured to Isaacs. "His boss" was preparing for the day he needed something on or from Mason and the guy was using Della Street's reputation to get it.

Ike "The Eye" Isaacs couldn't have that— Della Street's happiness was in someone's hands and finding out who was starting to border on obsession for him.

_**-The Eye 1962-**_

The pitfalls of this gig magnified as he got older: trips across the country or around the world at the drop of a hat; hiding outdoors in inclement weather; fooling around with homely chamber maids to get into rooms; and the sheer number of nights he had to be away from his own home. Over the last few years he realized he kind of liked his wife and as for his kids, he was damn proud of them. They were tuning out well given what their dad did for a living and that he wasn't around all that much. That, he had realized, was also thanks to his wife.

That crap all fell on the negative side.

There were only two things in the positive column, the dough and Della Street.

For over 12 years he watched the most incredible woman he would ever "know"—and there was nothing in the world like seeing a kind and beautiful woman in her most private moments. Della Street made him understand women in a way he never had before; their strengths, as tough as industrial diamonds, and the fault-line of frailties that ran through them, which the good ones always bore silently.

She worked as hard as Mason, maybe harder, and was as stalwart as any person could be. When she laughed and played with her boss and his buddy, that Drake guy, she was a tomboy, plucky and funny. But when she was womanly she was _all _woman; in fact, she redefined the very word.

Ike was a stinker—he knew it, but he loved watching her in bed, too.

By day she was demure and efficient in her high collars, modest suits, and girlish dresses—although the tight skirts and high heels she wore when they weren't in court, could drive a man insane. She flirted with her boss but just enough to be cute.

At night she turned into something shocking, though—they both did—a swirling tempest, flames shooting from her eyes, her body wild.

Ike knew that in her case it was love, a love so deep, so encompassing that it had changed who she innately was. But that Gemini trait of hers is what probably kept Mason as beguiled by, as captive to, her as she was to him. It certainly had Ike.

Ike would watch fascinated as she dressed for Mason every night, the grown up lady-like peignoir sets, the sexy, silk robes in jewel colors, and, of course, he became literally breathless at the sight of her naked body. But it was the silk pajamas in baby colors with their short sleeves and Peter Pan collars that Ike loved best. Only Della Street could run around in those things like a little girl while never letting you forget she was a woman.

From what he could tell through the sometimes warped, sometimes too honest view of his third eye, unlike other couples they didn't go to bed and _happen_ to make love. They went to bed _to_ make love, sleep clearly a very secondary need. Most nights they made love with music playing and the lights on. Ike was never sure if it was on purpose or, if in their passion, they just didn't get a chance to turn the lights off; probably some of both.

Although it wasn't good for business, Ike perferred the lights off. Della Street was more uninhibited, that brown butter voice carring across the dark night in sounds of pleasure so deep they seemed to come from some hidden place inside her and spoke words he could never imagine a woman like her saying. He didn't even mind hearing the oaf who, he hated to admit, was terribly romantic with her. Sometimes when he sat in court watching them, he couldn't believe that they were the same people, particularly the oaf so stern, so cold, so calculating. Then Della sitting there scribbling away on her little pad, watching his every move.

Shortly before he took very ill, when Mason walked back to their table after a particularly riveting cross examination that won their case, and Ike caught the look Mason gave his secretary... and the look she returned. Neither face had even a hint of a smile or a sliver of triumph, there was nothing really in the look, nothing anyone would pick out as especially personal. And yet, it was. It was very personal and it was all in the way those two sets of eyes seemed to... shine at one another.

The Eye suddenly realized something about Mason.

It was all for her.

All of it.

The grandstanding, the desire to champion the seemingly most lost of causes, to vindicate the innocent,_ to be the hero_, that was all for Della Street. Everything, Ike realized, that this goon did was for her, as if he were some sort of latter day...Knight, slaying dragons in her name. Not a man prone to flights of fancy, Ike realized it was also evident in Mason's courtly ways with her, from the way he held her arm everywhere they went and almost bowing when she sat or stood, to the way he covered his bare hand with his handkerchief when they danced and she wore a backless dress.

In speeches and interviews he had heard, or read, Mason say that without his trusty Della he would not be who he was. Now he understood that those were more than words, more than the sentiments of a smart boos who knew who couldn't do it alone. This was a man who knew that he was only half of a thing without her.

It was all for her.

Della.

Unfortunately, that's where the second part of the negative side of this gig came into play for Ike "The Eye" Isaacs. Last year Ike wanted off the job because he was starting to feel badly about he was doing to her. When it was made clear to him that his defection would not be tolerated he was both angry and relieved. His reality was that he couldn't have let her go if he tried—and he sure as Hell didn't want some other jerk on this detail, watching her in her most intimate moments.

The Eye had to grant it would have been hard to replace him, if not impossible, just as the voice on the phone asserted. The Eye had, well, a great eye and was built for the gig. With a non-descript face, he was plain and people seldom remembered him. Compact—okay, short— and thin he was all muscle from years of wrestling before he dropped out of school to serve in WWII. He could climb up anything like a simian and squeeze into places most guys couldn't. _And_ he could get the shots without anyone knowing; even a guy as smart as that bastard was supposed to be.

Of course, Ike didn't think he was that smart at all. A smart man would have married Della Street.

Smart or not, this year the guy had been sick; seriously sick and getting thinner until he ended up in the hospital having major abdominal surgery. Cost him a C-note to finally get a look at the chart from the one orderly he was finally able to bribe and it sure as Hell wasn't good.

In the hospital it was easier to photograph her than it had ever been, first pacing the waiting area going through cigarette after cigarette, as the extensive surgery dragged on well past eight hours; age, suddenly scratched into her face in the form of worry. When Drake came with sandwiches and sat with an arm around her for a while, it got a bit better. Then the doctors spoke with them and it got much better. But The Eye saw that it didn't really go away for months—maybe it never did.

Della would spend every night at the hospital, curled up in a chair next to his bed, in jeans or capris she had brought with her. She ate little, slept even less. Often The Eye would stand just outside the door, remarkable really how little personnel roamed the hospital halls at night, and he could overhear a few quiet words.

That first night about 3AM—long after doctors had insisted she go home and she told them they had the wrong girl—Ike heard a feeble, "Della?"

"Right here, Perry. Right here, my love."

The Eye heard her get up, and he could have sworn he heard a kiss, then a moan and then silence.

A few nights later, The Eye accidentally banged into Della Street as he turned away from the water cooler, smack into her.

"Excuse me, ma'am, terribly sorry," The Eye tipped his hat but kept his eyes down.

In a deep, resigned voice she replied, "Oh, that's fine. I'm so tired I can't feel a thing."

Ike held the fountain for Della, unable to wrest his eyes from her. She looked like someone's babysitter. As unkempt as he had ever seen her, the usually perfectly coiffed hair was a mass of stubborn curls with a mind of their own. Without make-up the sparkle in her eyes was all her own; the porcelain skin, bare, was actually covered with an intricate map of freckles.

With her old jeans rolled up at the ankle she wore a grey wool hooded sweater, a hand jammed into a pocket in front. On her feet were funny, brown suede, elfin booties, adorable on her, that showed just how tall she really was. They also explained why he didn't hear her when she came up behind him at the cooler.

When the "drink of water" was done getting her drink of water, she wiped that full lower lip with her thumb, said "Thakn you" and walked gracefully back to Mason's room.

After three days of this she started going into the office and for the next two weeks that was her life—office to the hospital and back, home only to get Mason something or more clothes.

Once she brought Mason home to his apartment Ike watched as she did everything for the guy. Each morning she would help him shave and clean up. During the day a middle-aged nurse in a white cap watched over him, sitting in a chair mostly reading fan magazines. By 7PM Della would be "home" again, making dinners, ferring him to the bathroom, fluffing pillows, going over work and generally amusing him in the gentlest of ways.

Protectively, Ike thought the nurse could have done some of this stuff until it occurred to him that he probably didn't want anyone but Della Street; couldn't blame him.

_**-The Eye 1962-**_

Their sense of fun, his easy smile, was gone after the surgery, never to return. They had both grown up and it was sad but cancer—that dreaded word that no one ever uttered if they could avoid it, an often swift and automatic death sentence—did that to a person. They probably both worryied how long he had.

Ike recalled a few months back when they had a case where Mason was defending an old friend of his. She was a lovely lady and how Hamilton Burger could ever have taken her for a murderess made The Eye wonder about the D.A.; a man for whom he had worked often.

Three of the Four Musketeers walked in after some kind of sting—the man Ike considered the fourth Musketeer was already there, out on the balcony. At first Ike didn't recognize the second Musketeer underneath a high, platinum wig, her green eyes made up more than usual and poured, as she was, into a tight, short, black cocktail dress with a silvery mink wrap caressing her shoulders.

When she came to the sliding glass door to open it, standing just steps from him, The Eye swallowed hard. Even got up like this Della Street was exquisite, and that dress had the deepest décolletage he had ever seen on her.

"Beautiful…you were beautiful!" he heard Drake call out.

Della sashaying across the room stopped for a moment, raising a shoulder to the men.

"Wasn't she, though?" Mason admired.

"Thank you kind, Sirs," Della pursed her lips in that way she had that drove Ike crazy.

"Where are you going young lady?"

"To change."

"Why?" Mason stood straight up, serious, making Drake laugh.

"Because, Counselor," Della Street dropped the wrap down her shoulders, lifting one shoulder up. "We have a great deal of work to do tonight."

"You can work like that..." Perry Mason looked about 6 to The Eye.

"Yes..._I_ can," Della Street laughed.

In all of the years he had been watching them he had never once caught them going at it in the office. Oh it was close plenty of times but never "all the way." Ike realized that tonight was probably going to be his chance.

"Well, on that note, kids..." Drake laughed with Della at the attorney who didn't seem to find any of this funny.

Before taking his leave Drake walked over to the terrace, looked both ways, as if he knew someone was out there and slammed the sliding door shut. Making his way across the room to the office's back entrance, Drake looked one more time at the terrace, giving The Eye a strange sensation.

No sooner did he scram than Mason was doing everything but chasing his secretary around the desk.

"See!" Della laughed, nearly running from him to the the sliding door again.

"I don't know why he shut this, it's so warm tonight," The Eye heard Della giggle as she opened the door back up.

"it is _very_ warm, Miss Street."

"Young man, control yourself!"

"Let's divest you of this," Mason slipped the mink the rest of the way off her shoulders.

"Alright you, we are too old for this kind of behavior."

"Speak for yourself..."

"We have a lot of work to do tonight. I will wake a judge at 9. I will _not_ wake him at midnight. Now keep your hands to yourself."

"Why? I don't want to and I'm not sure I could even if I did want to. Now come here, Miss Street."

The Eye watched Mason and his secretary tussle playfully. Those gorilla arms of his wrapped around her and then some, but she managed to squirm from his grip. Ike couldn't blame the guy and when he doubled back around her, lifting her off the ground and practically throwing her over his shoulder, the photographer almost gave away his position and presence he was snorting so loudly.

"Perry!" Della Street yelped, giggling.

Mason let her slide down his body then leaned her back in his arm, kissing her slowly. This, she didn't fight, nor did she fight the labored, indecent dance his massive hands did across her body that began to make both their bodies undulate. After a few minutes, however, he started to walk her backwards toward the couch and she stopped him.

The Eye knew he should be snapping away but he was too mesmerized.

"I'll make a deal with you," Della said, fighting for breath herself. "We get these subpoenas out and I'll… well, I'll wear this whole, silly get up home."

"Can we go out for a drink?" Mason offered a playful but evil grin.

"Not on your life!"

"Those are your final terms?"

With a hip jutting out, hands on her hips, her face tipped up to his as she laughed that throaty laugh, she was feral, a true bombshell.

"Those, Counselor, are my final terms."

And then she did something The Eye couldn't imagine. Della Street sat down at the desk and actually started preparing subpoenas, with her boss still standing in the middle of the room, unable to move. When he finally went to his desk to sit down he was agitated but his mind seemed to be back on the case, more or less.

The Eye never did understand how he put together the slender threads he pulled from a case to come up with the murderer. Often his reasoning, when The Eye was privy to it, seemed out of left field. Tonight was one of those nights with Mason fascinated by why his old friend, whom he was defending against a murder charge, would make such a ridiculous decision.

"Why do you think she married him, Della? She was in love with her boss…and he was in love with her."

Every now and then The Eye wondered how Perry Mason could be so stupid. Apparently their girl wondered as well by the look of amused patience she wore.

"Because he didn't ask her."

"That's all?"

"For most women that's more than enough!"

"It is? Huh…" Perry Mason genuinely looked confused.

"What you don't understand, Mr. Mason, is that most women want to be married. Well," Della laughed and threw her eyes up at him from beneath her blonde waves, "Every woman wants to be married."

"They do?" smiled Mason.

"They do. So while she loved her boss, she married the man that asked her," Della's pretty little hand turned the deduction over in the air.

They both could read what was going on in his mind. Could that happen to him? Della Street looked down at the desk a little self-consciously as she worked.

"Some women might not make that the first priority, though."

"Very, _very_ few; especially when a woman gets to be our age."

"You, Della, are significantly younger than Beth."

"I don't think so, Dear, a few years younger…maybe."

"But I'm five years older than you."

At that The Eye watched as Della Street, in the most fetching way, looked back and forth from him to their work and back again, finally plunking an elbow on the desk and laughing behind her hand.

Mason was now muddled by, and mired in, his confusion. "What?"

"Perry…"

"What?"

Della stopped what she was doing, walked to the table near and grabbed a stack of papers.

"Okay," Della sighed, walking back over to him, pinching her lower lip between two fingers. "What is an unmarried man called?"

Perry Mason wore the look of a man who had walked right into a trap. With his huge, hang dog eyes wide and innocent, the corners of his mouth turned down, he feigned ignorance.

"What do you mean?"

Della Street gave him a gimlet eye. "Perry Mason, what do you call an unmarried man?"

"Happy?"

Della threw a small book at him, although she was smiling.

"Perry, do you want this explained to you, or not?"

"Indeed I do," the smug attorney leaned back in his chair, his hands behind his head and a Cheshire cat grin on his face.

"Well, then…" Della walked back over, sat and crossed those amazing stems.

"Alright, alright…an unmarried man is called a bachelor."

"Right. And what do you call an unmarried woman—and I warn you young man, this would be an inopportune moment to make _any_ kind of joke."

"A spinster." Mason, to his credit thought The Eye, looked down. "We still call unmarried women, even those as beautiful as a woman can be spinsters."

"And if a man decides he wants children at 50…55…even 70…what is the only thing he has to do?"

Perry Mason was serious now, as he clapped the back of one hand into the other over and over. The Eye had seen this one million times over the years and usually it meant he was considering something very important.

"Marry a young lady…of child-bearing age."

"And that, dear boss, is all that you ever need to know about why a woman would marry a man who asks her, instead of waiting for the man she loves."

Perry Mason's face made The Eye laugh—it looked as if someone had thrown cold water all over it. Of course, in a sense, someone had—matter-of-factly, without cruelty, or womanly ploys—but someone had indeed thrown cold water into the face of the great attorney.

_**-The Eye 1962-**_

When he got the call, The Eye was shocked.

For almost two decades they had driven him, and driven him hard, to get as much on film of these two as he could. In the beginning whoever this guy was, wanted The Eye to shoot them 100 days, or nights, a year. By year three it was 150 days and for the last several years it was up to 200 days, rather nights, a year.

And now when they were at his home all of the time where the blinds were seldom if ever closed, where they were distracted by fear and medication, where their domesticity and intimacy could not have been more obvious, now his patron wanted him—ordered him—to back off.

Why?

He had asked the question of his contact, who he realized several years back was not the guy paying him. The guy implied that starting to ask questions now was a dangerous proposition. The Eye knew he was right.

"Dinner, Dear…"

_Dinner, Dear._ Ike chuckled.

Sometime over the last few years they had turned into the Cleavers, he and the wife. When they met, she had been working as an "exotic dancer," with an interest in shiny things and shiny men. Their marriage was a …necessity and at first it grated on both of them.

But the baby was sweet, as were those that followed, and they had changed. Ike knew that most of it was because _he_ had changed. Oddly enough, the better he treated his wife, the softer and kinder, the more ladylike she became.

Over the years he had watched two people who had gone against society's norm in almost every way a couple could, and not only maintain their dignity but raise it to an art form. They comported themselves with a class, most folks never had. Despite his odd profession, Ike had grown into a better man, watching these two people.

Now his bosses wanted him to stop, the phone call had said, at least while the guy was recovering.

The simple fact was, he couldn't stop and after dinner with his family, he would wrap himself up in his dark trench coat and fedora, pack his smallest camera bag and best camera and head over to Mason's apartment to see what he could see.

What the Hell? When they saw the stuff, they'd be happy enough.

_**-The Eye 1962-**_

Mason must have been having a good night. Supposedly he was due back at work in a week, after three and a half weeks at home recovering. Their girl had prepared steak, green beans and baked potatoes with sour cream and he ate every bite. But she had been in that kitchen a long, damn time, thought Ike. Maosn must have thought so, too, as he would shuffle to the kitchen door now and again only to be shooed away.

After dinner when she brought out a small square cake they both realized why. From where Ike stood on the balcony, it like Apple Brown Betty when she turned it out on plates. Smothered under whipped cream, Mason lit up like a damn Christmas tree when she handed him a square.

Of course, he had seen them both cook hundreds of times, especially out at their beach house. But he hadn't really ever seen any baking going on. Mason seemed fairly surprised himself and threw an arm around her, pulling her down onto him on the couch and kissing her curls.

Snapping away he couldn't help but feel, once again, that this particular guy didn't deserve to be this lucky but what the Hell?

After they ate their cake, with Mason clearly going on and on about how good it was, and Della had turned off most of the lights, they snuggled back on the couch again. Della lay gingerly against him, stroking his cheek and soon they were kissing, not the sweet, tender kisses of late, but the passionate kisses from before he became ill. It was the first real affection he had seen between them in a while—the guy sure hadn't been up to much.

When The Platters started crooning Mason, with great effort and holding an arm tight against his stomach, lifted himself off the couch and held out his hand to her. Folding her in his arms she buried her head in his still broad chest. Ike stopped snapping, her tears hurt too much.

_Heavenly shades of night are falling, it's twilight time  
Out of the mist your voice is calling, 'tis twilight time  
When purple-colored curtains mark the end of day  
I'll hear you, my dear, at twilight time_

_Deepening shadows gather splendor as day is done_  
_Fingers of night will soon surrender the setting sun_  
_I count the moments darling till you're here with me_  
_Together at last at twilight time_

Mason kept moving her slowly but cupped her cheeks, his thumbs pulling her tears away from her eyes.

_Here, in the afterglow of day, we keep our rendezvous beneath the blue  
And, in the sweet and same old way I fall in love again as I did then_

_Deep in the dark your kiss will thrill me like days of old_  
_Lighting the spark of love that fills me with dreams untold_  
_Each day I pray for evening just to be with you_  
_Together at last at twilight time_

Ike watched as they stopped moving now, and just held tight to one another.

_Here, in the afterglow of day, we keep our rendezvous beneath the blue  
And, in the sweet and same old way I fall in love again as I did then_

_Deep in the dark your kiss will thrill me like days of old_  
_Lighting the spark of love that fills me with dreams untold_  
_Each day I pray for evening just to be with you_  
_Together at last at twilight time_  
_Together at last at twilight time_

Almost without parting, it seemed to The Eye, they walked to his bedroom flipping off the last light as they walked into the hall. He had a decision to make. They told him not to shoot anymore but this was probably going to be good. It had been a _long_ time for them, and for Ike. In fact his wife had wondered what was wrong with _him_ lately, in that regard. How could he explain his lack of inspiration to her?

Ike crossed through the boxes filled with flowering trees to the sliders off his bedroom. They were already undressed, his wounds still bandaged like a package going overseas. Della Street started covering him delicately with her lips, her hand stroking him. Mason's head fell back and into her shoulder, his eyes were closed. With his hair splayed across her breast, he reached a hand up for her shoulder, moaning.

Ike stopped, packed his camera bag and nearly ran back to the other part of the terrace. Quietly, nimbly he vaulted a good four feet over the railings on Mason's apartment and the one next door, landing squarely on that terrace. A quarter the size of Mason's joint, it was still a nice place for $30 a month, which he could easily afford thanks to his patron's generosity. Sometimes he hung around during the day and worked there but he had to be careful not to run into them.

Tonight he just wanted to get home to the wife. That conscience thing was going to get worse, he could see it now, but he just couldn't watch them tonight while snapping away on his third Eye. They weren't lovers in an illicit affair. They were just a couple, more in love than any two people he had ever seen, and they were hanging on for dear life.

Tonight, especially, they deserved to love in private.

_**-The Eye 1962-**_

Ike and his wife had had a damn nice night, he thought as he sat at his desk plotting out his next week's schedule. When he came home he opened a bottle of champagne, they danced for a while, then hit the sack. She even did one of her exotic dances for him, as quietly as possible since the kids were next door and they were growing up, making them both giggle as they tumbled into bed.

Ike was smiling when the shrill ring of his office phone cut through the air.

"I thought I warned you not to take any pictures while he was sick?" an angry voice spat at him.

Ike was a nervous guy to begin with but now he was really fidgeting.

"Look… you guys…"

"What do you mean 'you guys'?"

Ike got more worried then he thought of Della Street and suddenly got angry. "You know what I mean. And you've been after me for more and more pictures of these two, in more and more places and more situations. Why, I don't know but you have so I obliged…"

The voice, which he recognized from somewhere but just couldn't place, yelled now, "God dammit I told you no pictures until he was well. You understand?"

"I…"

"Look I hired you because you are the best—a weasel who can get in anywhere unseen and who obeys…_obeys without questions_. And, as an added bonus, you can take pictures. You got it? You're getting paid well, pal. Shut up and do as you're told."

"Yeah, yeah….alright."

"Now you take everything you've shot, with the negatives, and meet me by the lockers at the bus station in half an hour. Got it?"

"It'll take me longer than…"

"No it won't. It's been timed out and leaves you no time to make copies if that's what you're thinking."

The Eye was a silent Eye.

"That's what I thought. You leave now you'll just make it."

"How will I know…"

"You won't have to know me. I know you."

Quickly the Eye put everything together, pulling out a few choice shots. Then he thought better of it. It occurred to him that he had been being watched, at least on and off, all of this time. This had been a much bigger operation than he knew and he asked himself once again, _why_?

_** -The Eye 1962-**_

The Eye stood by the lockers, waiting.

When the guy appraoched him, he studied him as best he could to see what, if anything, he recognized. To be sure he was familiar but The Eye couldn't place him. Handing over the envelope the guy didn't say a word.

"How do you know it's all in there?"

"It's there. You know what'll happen to ya' if it ain't."

The Eye watched as the man in the tweed suit walked swiftly away, the envelope under his arm. He tried to follow him but when he got outside he seemed to be gone. All that he saw was a bunch of cabs, and one 1959 Triumph pull away from the curb.

Yup, he had seen him before. And sooner or later he would realize where.


	5. Chapter 5

This chapter riffs on TCOT Sorrowful Secretary, chapters 2-4, and assumes, as is suggested in "TCOT Heartbroken Bride," that Perry had an affair with Laura Parrish when he lectured for a semester in Georgetown in 1967.

_**November, 1967**_

_**Los Angeles, CA**_

This had been a strange year of upheaval for Mason, his secretary and their own personal photographer.

Family duties abounded for The Eye now that they had three kids in college—a freshman, a sophomore _and_ a junior. Next year they would be four for four and it would stay that way for another couple years when they baby went to school the next year.

While The Eye hated the Mason job, it paid for that chunk of human hide it stole by making his family comfortable, if not wealthy. Cash couldn't buy the new house they badly needed but it could pay for a massive, and very necessary, addition. They had one, modest, black and white television set but two adults with five kids _needed_ the five cars they had. Used car dealers drooled at the thought of the cash and Ike got some damn nice vehicles. The contractor got another gig, this time for an enlarged garage.

Now there were to be five college tuitions and, if he understood one son and one daughter correctly, two law degrees ahead—their career choice was an irony not lost on The Eye.

Those he couldn't pay for in cash, of course, but he saved his legitimate money for this kind of thing ans the kids got scholarships from academic to sports to music. Books, spending money, off campus housing, all of that could be paid for with cash. They were damn fine kids, all straight A-students, kind and ready to help around the house. They deserved everything he could afford.

A few years ago and unexpected raise came along. The Eye still questioned what it meant but he didn't question how welcome it was and that he deserved it.

In the beginning the pay was modest and came yearly but his duties were nebulous, his bosses less anxious and demanding. In '52 they wanted more film and paid a healthy chunk of cabbage five years in advance, which The Eye hadn't ever heard of happening to anyone before. That figure was raised once again when they wanted him on the job even more nights.

And that's how it went until one night, about two years ago, when an influx of cash showed up in his safe—the new safe, the one no one was supposed to be able to get into. Returning home late from a job he had tackled the elaborate locks to find someone had left enough cash to have upped his yearly salary for this gig to $30,000.

For the first time, The Eye wondered about those thousand dollar bills but they turned out to be real. A phone call followed, a meager explanation, from the voice he still couldn't place.

"They're pleased with all of the material. Keep it up," was said under a long exhale of smoke.

Before The Eye could ask any questions the phone went dead on the other end.

Then a few weeks ago, the amount he again found in his safe, reflected a continuation of the same raise: $150,000 in crisp $1,000 bills, 30-large a year for the next five years.

This was more than a deal with the Devil, The Eye knew it now, too. In fact, he had a very bad feeling that he was selling them his life, whoever "them" were.

And who the Hell were they? He wanted to know now more than ever. For years The Eye had suspected they were trying to hamstring Mason somehow, using her reputation. Now, he didn't know what to think. This was an extraordinary effort on someone's part.

What did they want?

Perry Mason would know, he would be able to figure it out.

One thing was for sure, he sure couldn't go to Mason for advice.

Or…could he?

—_**The Eye 1967—**_

Mason went to college that year, too.

The Eye followed them out to Georgetown where he was to spend a semester as a visiting lecturer but with the exception of a few shots of them shopping, going out on the town, or going into and out of the apartment together looking very homey, he couldn't get much.

They were living together that first month, for sure, and she stayed there every time she visited. But D.C. was nothing like Los Angeles. For one thing there were always cops around. The town was crawling with them in cars, walking a beat, riding around on God-damn horses for God's sake.

Los Angeles may have seemed like a city but it wasn't a city in the East Coast brick-pavement-and -cobblestone sense. These city dwellers were hulking, rabid, watch dogs when it came to their property, and their neighbor's property. Mason's beautiful apartment was only on the second floor but it was in front and usually shuttered. When it wasn't, someone was _always_ snooping around looking at him as if he was…well…doing the kind of stuff he was actually doing.

Mason seemed to be in his element…as long as she was there. The few times he stayed behind after Della Street left, just in case Mason was a mortal male, he noticed the difference. In town, she went everywhere with him, including his lectures. There she would sit, in the corner, smiling beatifically up at him as he spoke, even taking notes like a co-ed.

Then he was, the great orator, dashing back and forth with uncharacteristic agility, flashing his blue eyes, his manner charming, affable, witty, challenging his students who were all clearly in his sway. Not that he wasn't good when she wasn't there. Of course, he was—the big ham, thought Ike.

With Della Street in the audience, however, the guy swung like Benny Goodman.

Ike had to give the guy credit, the way he introduced Della, giving her plenty of credit for "their" success. After class kids swarmed her, asking about their practice, or their legendary capers and her role in them. Bashful she would extoll his talents with a hand on her chest, while vastly underplaying her own.

Mason always caught it, though, and always stepped in to regale his students with her deeds and virtues. He told them she could stand for hours in the middle of the night, in high heels, taking notes over dead bodies and had for almost 20 years.

As she blushed and shook her head, he extolled her research skills and the number of times her work broke cases, or how she snuck into places and climbed out windows with him while they chased leads, or posed as any number of characters over the years, in an effort to ferret out the truth.

By the end they would all be rapt, looking at Della Street much the way Mason did, which made him grin broadly. Young men were not immune to her charms although she was old enough to call mom and the few girls in class fairly swooned, often tagging along behind them as they walked down the hall, his arm in hers.

In a very short time, The Eye hated Washington and decided to give up on it. So, Ike stayed back in L.A., snooping around Della when she was alone, until he got a strange call one afternoon.

"Why aren't you in Washington?" the voice asked, very agitated but, oddly, The Eye didn't think it was at him.

"Because she's _here_," replied Ike.

For a long while the only response was smoke being exhaled on the other end of the phone and when the voice finally spoke he did sound tired and…sad.

"Get out there. Make sure you come back with something."

"There something to come back with?" The Eye was incredulous.

"Yeah," the voice was terse, resigned. "Apparently."

"Is he out of his God-damn mind?"

There was a long pause then, "Yeah…apparently."

The Eye was on the next plane and had the first photos that very night.

Getting those photos meant extraordinary feats and doing something he only ever did when they stayed in hotel suites. In a hotel, if caught, he could always claim to be the hotel dick. If he was caught in an apartment, he was screwed.

Before he got home, The Eye tucked himself into Mason's hallway closet, armed with his quietest camera, and hoped like Hell they played music.

About 11PM Mason walked in with a beautiful girl who resembled a younger version of Della Street only not nearly as lovely. Thick dark hair in a shoulder length bob, dark eyes, sly smile, she was only in her 20s but she was worldly in a way that Della Street, even now at 45, never was.

Mason didn't take any virginity here, not like he had done so many years ago.

Something flashed under the lights and The Eye saw she was taken—a huge diamond _and _wedding band weighted down her finger if not her conscience. Forward in her youthful way she pulled his face down to hers, offering herself as she had clearly done before. Mason accepted the offer, smiling but not romantic, not gentle the way he was with Della Street.

As he watched, The Eye was nauseated. Trying to pretend this was another job, that there wasn't an incredible woman across the country whose heart would be broken if she ever knew, he snapped away from behind his door as they quickly became tangled in the sheets to some pop music the girl had put on; some English guys he recognized from behind his daughters' bedroom doors.

The girl, Laura, fought hard when he refused to let her stay the night—it was quite a row. She was a fiery thing and not in an enticing way. In the end, though, Mason called a cab, wrapped her in her calf-length sable and took her downstairs. The Eye scurried out of his hiding place and out into the hall, around the corner.

Skulking around outside his door for a while he heard the bastard answer the phone. Although he couldn't hear what he said, Ike figured he knew anyway. Mason was telling his secretary—who despite the fact it was past 10 there now, was probably still in their office working, as she had every night he was gone—how lonely he was and how much he missed her.

—_**The Eye 1967—**_

By the end of the week he had all of the material they could have wanted and he could stomach. Mason and the girl, who turned out to be a young lawyer sitting with him on a civil rights council, were caught going at it in their apartments, her car, everywhere. They went out to dinners and cocktail parties with her friends, important D.C. big wigs and altacockers, happy to collect Perry Mason and hold him among them.

No sooner did Ike walk in the door than his office phone rang. The contact wanted details and The Eye offered what he knew. Both of them seemed to be… commiserating was the only word Ike could think of, over this turn of events.

Ike told him about the fights, about the way she kept trying to force the guy's hand and the night he heard what seemed like a threat when she told Mason, with tears that didn't seem real, that she wasn't in love with her husband anymore and would do anything she could to ensure Mason stayed with her.

Mason was unmoved by her girlish dramatics and shut her down in no uncertain terms. Not unkindly, he told the girl that he cared for her and sympathized with her but that his life was with a woman that he loved more than his own life. The girl grew increasingly unpleasant until Mason made it clear no more would be tolerated.

When he was done, the man on the phone didn't say much.

"I ain't a smart guy, not like Mason, probably not even like you," Ike sucked on his Camel. "And I can't say that I've been faithful to my wife. But what's wrong with a guy who puts up with that sh-stuff when he's got an angel at home?"

"Beats me," said the voice.

Then he instructed The Eye to take all of the film and negatives from this debacle and bring them to their meeting place at the bus station.

"Now? I just got home and I'm…"

"Sorry pal. Now…."

The phone clicked. Funny thing, he actually did sound sorry.

_**-The Eye 1967-**_

Normally The Eye's favorite place to shoot these two was out at their Malibu beach house. High on a bluff, overlooking the ocean, the cottage was surrounded by beautiful flowering shrubs and trees, providing plenty of places for him to hide.

There were huge panels of windows that Mason had put in to give them better views and it certainly worked for The Eye. Nothing beat being out in the sea air and when he wasn't watching them, he had the ocean.

Tonight he sat in a puddle, in galoshes, hating his life.

An autumn rain ebbed and flowed, battering the windows one minute, then streaming gently the next. Della Street lay across the couch that was tucked into the little alcove with its bay window, staring out into the night. With her legs drawn up, head on her arm, tissues were gathered like blossoms in her beautiful fingers.

From beneath a scrub pine The Eye watched her pain. Not unlike when Mason was sick, her pain aged her tonight and yet she still didn't look 35.

Mason came up behind her at one point. Whatever he asked she shook her head, half looking over her shoulder but not enough so that Mason could see her face. He disappeared again and didn't come back for a long time. Ike sat with her, watching, not two feet away.

Soon the rain's gentle footfall lulled them both to sleep.

The Eye woke just in time to see Mason's enormous shadow fall over her, kissing her cheek and helping her to her feet. Sleepily she leaned against him as he half-carried her. Standing, Ike took a chance and watched as they walked down the hall together to the bedroom. Racing around to the other side of the small house, he peered into their bedroom, camera poised.

Clicking away, angry at both of them tonight, he snatched shots in the low light of Mason undressing her, first undoing her capris and slipping them down as she leaned over his shoulder like a rag doll. Face slightly puffy, deadly serious; she looked away self-consciously when he tenderly lifted her sweater over her head. All that was left was an expensive brassier and panty set, the color of a baby's skin.

Without any help from her, Mason removed his own clothes quickly, pulling her against him when he was done. Shaking her head she cried into his shoulder and for a moment, The Eye was heartened when she pushed him away. But he held her tighter and before long she relented.

Mason rocked her from one foot to the other her body pressed so far into his there was little of her left. With a hand on the lowest part of her back he slid his hand along her back, brushing her panties down and away away at the same time his other hand released her from her bra. But it was too much for the secretary who suddenly covered her face with a hand, her other arm crossed in front of his enormous chest.

Mason held her shoulders. His eyebrows, scrunched together in the middle, were turned down at the ends in a look of utter despair. They stood naked like that for so long Ike lost track.

Finally Mason brought her over to the bed and put her in on her side. Sitting on the edge next to her, he brought the covers up. Della kept her eyes trained outside the window in Ike's direction, her elbow overhead, the back of her hand hiding her mouth. Mason stroked her forehead, leaning over her, the other arm outstretched on the bed but he couldn't draw her out.

Kissing her, he finally got up threw on his pajamas and left the room. The Eye couldn't watch her cry anymore so found Mason on the other side of the house, stretched out on the couch in the window, throw pillows jammed under his head and an ash tray balanced on his swollen belly.

The room dark, except for the ash's glow, there was no way to get the picture The Eye wanted: Mason's face in shadow, tears running in a steady stream from the corners of his eyes to the pillows beneath.

Much as he wanted a cigarette and a stiff, stiff drink Ike stayed there, huddled under the pine, sitting Shiva with them—none of them were strong enough to make a move.

Maybe he nodded off again. Ike couldn't tell. God knows he was exhausted from all of this. At some point the moon had ventured out, so full it illuminated a swath of water and beach that seemed endless, making the beads of water on the closed blossoms shimmer.

Lifting his eyes over the bottom edge of the window he could see Mason in the same position, eyes wide open and still wet. Ike was getting ready to leave when down the hallway came the flowing nightgown of Della Street; the strongest of them all braving the night, bringing light with her just like the moon.

Mason put out his cigarette and sat up, swinging his feet to the floor. They considered one another for a long moment when Della stepped between his legs and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. With his shoulders shaking, he buried his head in her belly and held onto her hips for dear life.

Head back, eyes closed, Della bit her lower lip as she stroked the back of his head, comforting him.

The Eye understood.

Della Street was a middle-aged woman who had devoted her entire life, work and personal, to him since she was 27. This was all she had, he was all she had, and for all his faults it did still look like a lot even to a guy who saw life through a third eye.

Ike knew what had happened.

Della made some kind of deal with herself; a deal that allowed her to keep her dignity _and_ keep her lover. Only a woman knew how to make that kind of deal—only a woman had to know.

_**-The Eye 1967-**_

The Eye followed Perry Mason around the tiny grocery store. He stopped short a few times in such a way as to acknowledge that he knew he was being followed.

Women walked by openly flirting with the guy. How the Hell did he do it, The Eye wondered?

Sure they probably recognized him and women loved powerful men but he sure wasn't ageing that well. Maybe he had something when he was younger but he had put on at least 75 pounds over the last few years, at least that much probably more. At 50 his hair was too short and graying by the second.

He _did _have that courtroom swagger, a confident air that came through wherever he was. In old tennis sneakers, shorts and a wrinkled, tent-like shirt he didn't tuck in, he still moved like a man wearing a $300 custom-made suit. And he had those high beams.

A girl in a bikini answered The Eye's unasked question when she turned to her equally infatuated friend and giggled, "God he's handsome and he looks so… sad, so sweet. You just want to hug him…"

"Hard to imagine it's really _the _Perry Mason," said her friend breathing a little hard. "All men should be like that…hard 9 to 5 and vulnerable the rest of the time."

Mason didn't notice any of the women or girls watching him While The Eye was listening to them, trying to untangle the mysteries of animal magnetism and why he didn't have it, Mason was suddenly in front of him for a showdown.

"May I help you?" Mason stared down onto The Eye.

Men didn't hit below the belt; it would have been appropriate but they didn't do it. And he didn't want to hit him in that bad stomach of his, or the bad shoulder for which he spent weeks in a sling a few years back. So The Eye balled up his spindly, overly white fist and socked the attorney hard on the other shoulder.

Perry Mason's eyes went wide in shock, his huge paw spread like a fan over his shoulder.

"Ow!"

"I'll ow you!"

"I beg your pardon."

"Don't beg me you fat bastard."

The Eye tried to stare the attorney down while, at the same time, not letting him see his face.

It wasn't easy.

"Listen, sir, I'm not sure what your problem is but…"

"I'll tell you what my problem is. How could you do it to her? You have the perfect woman. She has done everything for you. And you're lonely for a couple of weeks while she's here working her pretty ass off for you, so you cheat on her with some chippie."

More shocked than he had ever been in his life—and little shocked Perry Mason after 25 years as a defense attorney—he just stood there in a trance for a few seconds. Then he got angry.

"Who in the Hell are you?" Perry Mason tried to reach out and grab Ike but he was too fast.

"It doesn't matter who I am but you do it again and I'll kick your fat ass but good."

"Did someone send you?" Perry was thinking to himself that Paul had promised that exact thing over the phone.

"No one sent me. I'm here on my own and you better believe that I am not kidding around."

With that Ike high-tailed it out of there leaving Perry Mason in the middle of the dry goods aisle, a box of cornflakes in one hand, his shoulder still in the other.

_**-The Eye 1967-**_

Ike got in his car and headed back to Los Angeles. Admittedly he wanted to see the scene back at the house but in broad daylight, with Mason now wary, he thought better of it.

Ike was going to have hit the used car guy on the way home. He had long ago made it so anyone looking at his license number would get the wrong information but a white, 1959 Cadillac… that was going to be noticed.

_**-Perry & Della, 1967-**_

Della was still pretty upset by the last several days and hadn't been up to coming with him, to being exposed to people. It frightened Perry because that was very unlike her. Instead she stayed home and said she would putter in the flowers, what was left of them anyway.

Perry's own emotions were pretty raw, having hurt the love of his life so badly, but they needed some things from the store and he needed a break from her pain. It wasn't fair. She didn't get a break from it, and for that he felt awful. But he needed some perspective.

Instead he got socked. What in Hell had just happened?

Unseasonably warm air swirled around him as he walked back, along the side of the PCH. California was beautiful, especially southern California. The East Coast was no place for him, he realized. Georgetown had been an academic plum and he had wanted very much to do some civil rights work, but he should have taken one of the numerous California offers that had been made.

As Perry walked around back he could hear music wafting out through the windows. Della was on the chaise languidly smoking a cigarette, little face tipped up toward the sun, which in just an hour had darkened the freckles covering her cheeks, nose, and forehead.

When she saw him she shifted her legs in an invitation for him to sit, though she was still far away. Setting the paper sack on the patio, he placed a hand on each arm rest.

"Tell me something…"

Della nodded, exhaling her smoke.

With an elegant finger he tapped several spots on her face, asking, "How do you manage to cover all of these pretty things up so well during the week."

"Practice," she gave a half-smile. "Practice and expensive make-up."

"Huh. Could we _not_ do that?"

"Cover them up?" Della crossed an arm over her stomach, cigarette a loft in the other hand.

"Not as much…not so you can't see them anymore."

"Well…you know they're there."

"Not the same," Perry clapped his hands together as he did when he was laying out evidence. "I like _seeing _them."

"I'll see what I can do."

"Can I ask you something else?"

"Sure," Della took a final drag and tamped out the end of her cigarette.

"I promise I'm asking not because I think you did but because…"

"Perry what is it?"

"You didn't …uh…hire anyone did you?"

"For what?" Della sat up now.

"Well…I was at our little grocer's and…this guy was following me. Then he slugged…"

"What?" Della's eyes shot open.

"I'm okay, I'm okay. But he punched me pretty hard in the shoulder…"

"Oh honey your bad…" Della reached out to him immediately, making his heart skip a beat.

"No, the other one…and then he asked me how I could do it to you…said you were the perfect woman and I was an idiot, I paraphrase, but you get the idea…"

"Perceptive fellow…" Della smiled sarcastically.

Perry snorted.

"But no, I didn't hire someone to punch you," she was a little angry.

"No, of course not… Paul?" Perry asked, not really believing it.

"I don't think so. He's looking forward to belting you himself," Della said with some satisfaction.

"I see," Perry nodded, making fun of himself and making Della chuckle. "Then how does this person know the intimate details of our life; why does he know them? And what makes him think he can attack me like that?"

They were quiet a moment and Della decided to try and be the adult she had always been. Immediately she went into work-mode.

"Listen, Perry…was this…a little guy, kind of… jittery, wearing a strange striped dusty brown suit, with an old hat…."

"Yeah… yeah _that's_ him. You know him?"

"Of course not, but I've seen him around. He's always sort of staring at me. Years ago I asked Paul if he was an operative of his, keeping tabs on me but Paul said he wasn't his."

"How long have you seen this fellow?"

"Gosh, it has to be a decade anyway, probably longer."

"A decade?" Perry was trying hard to place him.

"How come I don't really remember seeing him?"

"Well you know women…"

"He's not handsome."

"What?" Della shook her head. "Oh Perry, my goodness."

"Well?"

"Women have to be careful. You notice if someone is watching you, especially if you're single…

"You're not single…" Perry said adamantly, scowling.

"Well," Della didn't know what to do with that so she let it go and continued. "If someone is around a lot without any real reason, we notice. Anyway, he seemed creepy but harmless. And I'm a good head taller than he is. I think I can take him."

Perry Mason laughed, "I don't know, that was a pretty good punch."

"Good."

"That might explain it," Perry was worried. "But it's not good. It's not good at all."

"Call Paul…"

"My thought exactly. Actually I was thinking that you could call Paul."

"He can't hit you over the phone," Della smirked.

"Oh, I don't think you know the earful I've gotten already."

"Well you're going to see him tomorrow morning at Junior's performance so…"

"I don't think he would hit me in front of the boy."

"Don't be so sure, Counselor."

"I'm not," Perry's big head bobbed up and down like a hapless St. Bernard, earning his first pursed-lipped smile in a very long time.

Perry loved Della new, shorter but when she didn't fuss, it was still his beloved mass of ringlets. Curling one around his finger, Perry jutted out his chin to indicate the chaise. After a roll of her eyes Della scooted over so he could snuggle next to her.

Pulling her close he wrapped her up in his body.

"Hey…"

Perry buried his face in her neck. "I'm not letting go of you until you promise that someday you will forgive me."

"We're going to look pretty strange walking around court like this…"

"So the sooner the better…"

Della sighed, "Okay, I promise that someday I will forgive you for breaking my heart…and I mean well and truly breaking my heart Perry Mason."

A deep, tearless sob escaped her chest.

"That's probably more than I deserve."

"There's no probably about it."

"Well…I'm still not letting go of you."

Della sighed again, kissing his ear, "Probably just as well…"

Peggy Lee had been swimming out the window on a breeze for a while when the first strains of "There'll Be Another Spring" began.

Della's tears returned.

"Baby…I am _so_ sorry…" said Perry, his "s's" lazy in sadness and exhaustion.

_Don't cry, there'll be another spring  
I know our hearts will dance again  
And sing again, so wait for me till then_

_Be glad the bird is on the wing_  
_Another time to love, And laugh with me, just wait and see_

_I love you now, And I'll love you forever_  
_Oh don't be sad, We'll surely be together_

_For the sky is bluer overhead  
If you will just believe in me  
There'll be another spring_

"Please believe me…please believe _in_ me."

Perry turned Della to face him, cradling her against his body and as she threaded her arms underneath his and squeezed tight he felt enormous relief.

They stayed that way well into twilight.

_**-The Eye 1967-**_

Once again The Eye wasn't even through the door when the call came. Running back to his office he grabbed it on the 7th ring.

"Yeah…"

"You get film the last couple of days?"

"A little, yeah."

"I want it."

"Aww come on. What determines what you want as soon as I shoot the crap or what you want me to just send at the end of the with everything else?"

"Bus station, 28 minutes."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah…"

Ike met the same guy he always me in front of locker 56—not the guy on the phone, he knew that. He handed over the package and tried to follow him to the door without being noticed. But in the end, all he saw was the same line of cabs and a car pull away from the curb—again it was a T-bird, a new one.

Alright, there was more than one way to skin this mangy cat.

Ike "The Eye" Isaacs was determined to find out who the Hell his boss was.

_**Music Legend:**_

I've been lax about this lately and I always get asked about it so I apologize. Long ago I meant to mention that should you ever want to hear the songs I quote, iTunes or Amazon will have most of the versions. I often listen to the songs I'm going to use as I write.

_Chapter 2:_ One of my all-time favorite holiday songs, "What Are You Doing New Year's Eve," and my favorite version (hard to find a bad one) is Ella's. I don't know why I left out the lyrics because it was truly perfect for that scene and time in their relationship and I may correct that.

_Chapter 4:_ "Twilight Time," by the Platters which was an unexpected choice. I thought of the title first, then listened to it on iTunes and thought it was so perfect for them.

_Chapter 5:_ "There'll Never Be Another Spring" was another surprise. I was never taken with it before until hearing Peggy Lee's version just the other day. I have a list of songs I want to use in the future but I vaulted over all of them in favor of this, which I thought was perfect for the situation.


	6. Chapter 6

_**February, 1972**_

_**Rio de Janeiro, Brazil & Los Angeles, CA**_

Ike had never wanted to see Brazil, in fact he could have cared less about most of the places he had been with the exception of his own living room, which he didn't see nearly enough.

Oh maybe if Della could have been on his arm as he escorted her to beaches and parties, late night dining on terraces then taking her back to make love to her under the stars. Of course, The Eye was a little long in the tooth for that kind of thing and, for his dime, so was Mason who was just a few years younger than he.

Although the way Mason was acting on this trip you wouldn't have known it.

They had grown up together, the three of them. Della was a girl of 27 when this job started and now she was on the cusp of 50. She still had a youthful playfulness about her and would never look like anyone other than Della Street but she was definitely not a girl anymore and you could see it, mostly in the way she dressed and handled herself.

At 54 Perry Mason was old; at least as The Eye saw it. Perhaps it was his weight, perhaps the weight of his job, but he almost could have been her father. Carriage thick and slow, face dark and full of shadows, The Eye heard Mason snap at Della _often _now. In her good natured way she would try to flirt him out of it, or just accept it stoically and through his third eye Ike could see her pain.

What he couldn't see, what he couldn't know, was that her pain was for Mason, not for herself.

In 1949 when The Eye first "met" them he was 35, Mason only 32 and already a headline-making success. A curious amalgam of boyish charm and world weary codger, he was a darling of the columns, quick to tease, to laugh, and cocky in the insecure way of the young, extremely successful man. As bombastic as he was in court, that is how quiet and deliberate he was in the office and around Della, strategizing and attacking problems with a measured determination that belied his 32 years.

Back then she was the more mature of the two, making sure he took care of himself by eating sleeping and taking time off and holding him in check when his ideas got too outlandish. Sitting at his elbow she would listen and cheerlead, offer insight and support as he worked out his ideas. And she kept them chaste as long as she could—much longer, thought The Eye, than anyone else who shared that kind of feverish chemistry with another person reasonably could.

For his part, 57 year-old Ike didn't look so hot either. Maybe it was his _lack _of weight or the weight of _his job_. If possible he was getting shorter and while he was always thin, even scrawny, at least he had been muscular. Now he looked like someone emptied him out and left a bag of skin behind.

Despite five babies, being a grandma and having an iffy heart, the wife wasn't ageing too badly; The Eye never failed to mention it to her. Theirs was a comfortable late-middle age. She had mellowed about his hours, even tried to make his life easier. In their youth she had kicked hard over that. They fought and they were good at it. Couples didn't weather that kind of thing, not as bad as it was with them. But Ike had a template, one he was paid to watch all of the time, and it changed his behavior towards women, especially his wife.

Ike had done well for his family but at what expense? It galled him that he couldn't find out who was paying his tab and at the end of '67 The Eye got a brainstorm—at least it seemed like one at the time.

Why not hire Mason to find out who had all their privates in a vice?

There was a lot wrong with this plan, of course. He couldn't give him _**any**_ of the real details, and the guy wasn't a magician.

For a long time Ike suspected he was being being followed; at least part-time and he was going to have to lose that tail before any meeting, which meant spotting it first. All it took was a few days driving and he nabbed a dirty, white Pontiac, maybe '64, that stayed on him only when he was on them.

Ike "The Eye" Isaacs was going to walk through the front door of the Brent Building, confer across the desk with Mason, drink the man's coffee and covet his secretary up close. The idea was so titillating he almost decided against it. After all, what better way to accidentally blow his cover than this?

Ike needed answers though, they all did, and ultimately it was too tempting. But he was going to have to go disguised and it was going to have to be _good _to fool them.

In the 1940s Ike dated a gal who was high up in the make-up department of RKO. Recently he heard that she was working as a senior make-up artist at CBS. As morally ambiguous as her former beau, she was happy to take a little freelance on the side—if it paid well.

From a pay phone Ike rang Sadie and asked for a make-up job so good it would fool his own wife, as a joke, of course. At least that was the story he gave her and wrapped up so pretty in the promise of five, crisp $100 bills who wouldn't buy it?

The Eye set his appointment with Mason for a Monday morning at 8:30AM and met Sadie at the studio at 5:00 before anyone else arrived. There was no tail, he was happy to see, and he pulled his car in via a back lot then used a stage hand door, where Sadie was waiting for him.

It took _hours_ but when Ike looked in the mirror he gasped. Staring back at him was the face of his mother's father, a cantankerous old bastard who only liked two things in the world, his pet rooster Pecker and his grandson. It was the old man's hard gaze all right, with lines in the exact same places.

On Sundays the old man took a bath and dressed for church in a snappy, suit, crisp pale blue shirt, cuff links and tie pin. The change from mud-stained work clothes and red braces to someone who looked like a high roller in Vegas impressed even 5 year-old Ike.

Ike's work clothes were non-descript, easy to move in, serviceable. As an occupational necessity, he always wore a hat pulled down over his brow to obscure his face. For this "assignment" he bought a brand new pale blue shirt, a navy flannel suit tailored for him and a new hat that did not cover his face. Ike wanted them to _see _it; to see who he _wasn't._

When he walked in to Mason's office, _through the front door_, the place was a well-ordered bee hive. The Eye had never seen this side; only Mason's office, which was calm, almost meditative.

Gertie ushered him into the cathedral that was Della Street's office—really an extension of Mason's office—although, The Eye knew from hundreds of nights on that terrace that Della spent 95% of her time working next to him at his desk.

Suddenly, there she stood smiling and indicating with an elegant hand that he should take a seat.

"Mr. Mason is just finishing up an appointment and we will be right with you."

"We." They _were_ a "we," more than any two people he knew.

Della was so polished she could have been announcing for TV. A mere arm's length from him she beamed in her warm, caring, sexy way. There was something incandescent about her beauty, the inner glow combined with some spectacular outer gifts.

Impossible to categorize she was the girl next door, sophisticated around the edges with a maternal core, and _just_ enough glamour.

How did she ever end up being a secretary he wondered; not that it wasn't a noble profession, and she was almost as much of an investigator as her boss. But in a town where women much less attractive and charismatic were huge stars one had to wonder.

Della sat down and was soon working away, a funny, pretty little scowl on her face, those perfect lips pursed. As he sat there staring, The Eye knew that his crush, his _obsession_, was complete. Ultimately, this is why he had come here today, to validate his hideous profession, and maybe to help her.

"Della…" the voice boomed over the new intercom making her fly back in her chair, then chuckle a bit.

"Right here, Mr. Mason."

Perry knew by the brightness of her voice that because he still didn't have a handle on that infernal new intercom yet, his voice had likely sent her to the ceiling. Della's formal use of "Mr." though, made it clear that his next appointment had arrived so he couldn't tease her about it.

"Please bring Mr. Blithe in now."

Mason almost whispered and Della stifled a giggle as she replied, "Yes, sir."

The Eye marveled at how they did it, how they maintained that fourth wall and did it so well while still being _them_.

Standing and coming around her desk, Della smiled at The Eye, "Right this way, Mr. Blithe."

Ike was overwhelmed.

For more than 20 years he had seen these two people more than he saw his own wife and children. Now here he was standing next to her as they entered the inner sanctum and he was _welcome_—of course he wouldn't have been, had they known. This was an entirely different experience.

Della went in first but held the door for him, letting him walk through. As Della pulled a chair around for him he made quite a show of sitting down. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the two exchange a subtle look of kind humor and was pleased he amused them.

"May I get you some coffee?" Della Street had her hands crossed in front of her as she stood right over him. The fresh, clean scent of soap and the lightest floral fragrance filled the space between them.

"Why that would be lovely young lady…one sugar and a touch of cream, if you have."

"I believe that we do," Della tipped her head to the side.

"Very nice office, young man."

The Eye managed to keep looking at Della under the guise of perusing the room. She had walked over to the table by the terrace—The Eye knew it so well, from the opposite angle, of course—to prepare the coffee tray.

"Yes, I have _the_ loveliest _office _in all of California," laughed Mason warmly, casting his blue eyes toward Della. "In fact, in the entire country."

Della had her head down, lips pursed as she arranged the tray of coffee. Caught, The Eye laughed, too. What the heck, he was an old man to them.

Mason continued, bailing him out, "Yes, we like it here very much. I guess we'd better, we're in it enough."

"You sure are," answered The Eye without thinking.

Mason's eyes shot up quizzically and Ike started to sweat.

"All of your cases… constantly defending some poor soul … all of the research, the papers to prepare, you must be here all of the time. I'm surprised not to see beds."

The Eye recovered nicely, he thought.

"Oh you just don't see them," laughed the secretary, making Mason's eyebrows wilt as he waited for her to realize what she said.

Seconds later Della's cheeks were dusted with a light pink and it was fetching.

The Eye was a lucky Eye today. They weren't in court so her sartorial choice was on the sexier side; snug, white, angora sweater with a full collar, black pencil skirt with a more modern higher, hem and dazzlingly high black pumps.

"Here we are…" Della handed him a perfect cup and Ike was reduced to a teenage girl swooning over Sinatra.

Fortunately, shaking hands helped his act.

"Now what can we help you with Mr. Blithe?"

"Well, how much will you charge me?" The Eye had long wondered about this.

Mason laughed.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Blithe. Only we older folks ask that," The Eye was impressed with the generosity of that statement. "Young clients tear through our door wanting help not worrying about anything but their troubles. I guess we're more pragmatic."

All three of them chuckled easily now.

"But I can't charge you anything because I don't know if I can help you."

"But your time…"

Mason gave him another broad smile.

"Well we have a little today," Mason looked over at Della and winked, she smiled warmly at him and then The Eye. "So why don't I listen and then we will all decide what can, or cannot, be done?"

For a long while now, The Eye had wondered about these two people. Were they what they seemed: principled, honest, kind? They didn't know what his problems were going to turn out to be, didn't know what kind of person he might be—but he needed help and they offered it, generously.

"Well, I've never heard of a lawyer working like that," The Eye set down his coffee and took up his cane again leaning forward. "This is complicated but here we go…"

After The Eye had laid out the story, without one identifying detail, Perry Mason looked at Della Street who looked down.

"Mr. Blithe…" Mason was earnest. "We want to help you, but I don't see how we can. We would need…_something_. I understand that your wife's friend doesn't want her name known but…"

Della leaned in, her manner gentle, her deep voice inviting.

"Mr. Blithe, the way Mr. Mason works is…well…it's like putting together a puzzle." She turned her hand over in the air. "But you can't put a puzzle together without having _any_ of the pieces."

"Della, call Paul," Mason said the words The Eye had heard him say hundreds of times over the years.

The Eye looked down into his lap realizing how foolish, and dangerous, this had been. As he gazed up through his lashes he could see them exchanging a look as she dialed.

"Paul, can you come right down?"

Then the strangest expression crossed Della's face.

"Oh…uh…" Della Street, clearly flummoxed, shrugged her shoulders, staring at Perry Mason.

Mason took the phone.

"Hello, Paul? I see…." He hid his surprise better than his secretary. "Well, we need some help trying to find out who is blackmailing a potential client. Can you get on it?"

Della Street tried to smile at The Eye but kept her face fairly in her notebook. The woman was not good at hiding her emotions, not good at hiding when something was amiss.

"We don't have much. Our client's wife has a friend who is being followed by a photographer and we need to find out who hired the photographer?"

Apparently there was dead silence on the phone.

"Paul?"

Then the gum shoe finally seemed to start talking.

"Well, that's the problem. The lady doesn't want her name known and doesn't know any of the players or even why this would be happening…yes. No, I'm afraid not…"

Mason listened for a moment then turned to The Eye.

"Does she have a description of the man taking the photos?"

Ike began to sweat again.

"Very…uh…non-descript she says. She only spoke to him that one night and didn't get a good look at him because too dark out."

Mason seemed a little helpless so The Eye played the card he was holding back. Carefully he gave them the name and address of another woman who was the subject of another job.

They would come up with The Eye. He would be found out, to some extent. But then, there really wasn't any choice. He was the key to the whole mystery.

"Well that certainly helps, Mr. Blithe. Did you get all of that, Paul?

...Paul?...

Okay."

Perry Mason was scowling as he put down the phone.

"Paul Drake is going to… put a man on your friend."

The Eye had to give it a shot. "Maybe a check on _him_, see if you can find out the names of _all_ his clients …"

"That's an awfully tall order, Mr. Blithe," Della said, doubtful.

"Maybe we just need to know…" The Eye started, "Why someone would be taking all of these pictures. He hasn't used them yet for anything. What's in it for him?"

Mason hung his head and clasped his hands between his knees, staring at his desk.

"How long has this been going on?"

"Well, she was never really sure," The Eye was nervous any time he had to give the attorney details. "Looking back…well…could be as far back as…'51…'52…"

That was close enough thought The Eye.

"And the photographer told her when she confronted him that it was a job?"

The Eye nodded.

"Apparently he apologized, genuinely felt bad he said," The Eye feared he might be overselling. "Then he ran off."

"Stinker," spat Della Street making The Eye feel painfully small.

"For a little over 20 years someone has been paying a photographer," Mason started laying out the few pieces of the puzzle he had.

"I'm guessing a good sum…

… to take a significant number of compromising pictures of a woman… of course these days they grow much less compromising….

…and they haven't been… used….sent to anyone, including her…."

There was a long pause.

"Depending on who she is, I suppose they could always be dangerous …or at least embarrassing and how…revealing they are?"

Mason's usually enormous blue eyes were squinting sideways watching Della scratch shorthand across her pad. Mason was far away. The only thing left was his unhappy expression, a composite of fear, anger, protectiveness and love.

"I understand that they're… about as revealing as pictures of a woman can get," stated The Eye. "And she's not…alone."

She was right The Eye realized suddenly, he was a stinker.

Finished with her notes, Della glanced at Mason but before her smile could blossom, the curve of her lips was thwarted by the expression of her lover's face.

"She knows this because…?" Della was curious.

"She knows, young lady. She knows…"

Clearing her throat nervously, Della nodded into her pad. When Mason finally spoke he was too calm, too quiet.

"It's an insurance policy, Mr. Blithe. The woman, or someone who cares a great deal about her, has something to offer…or will. At least the person paying for this seems to think so. When you find the brains behind this you _may_ find the motive…but you may _not_. You probably won't know for sure until he or she decides to use them."

"If…" offered The Eye.

"When," corrected Mason.

_**-The Eye-**_

It was well past two in the morning. Ike, who had just gotten home, was annoyed that anyone would call his office so late.

"Yeah."

"You're making a mistake," said the voice he recognized, but didn't.

"Not the first time."

"Might be your last if you're not careful."

The Eye had had a long day; three hours in the make-up chair followed by the adrenaline rush of visiting Mason's office, a few other legit jobs followed by working the attorney's terrace half the night—The Eye couldn't resist shooting them that same night.

In the bargain the he heard a detailed conversation between the two, led by a very worried Mason, about The Eye's visit today, as it might pertain to them were they in the same situation.

Which, of course, they were.

"What?" snapped The Eye to his mystery caller.

"Disappear Mr. _Blithe_ before Mr. _Blithe_ is disappeared—he and his alter ego."

The Eye had taken every precaution not to be known, not to be followed. Leaning back in his chair he realized that there was an _element_ of surprise in that phone call but that he wasn't actually _surprised_.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Listen, you know by now I'm just a go-between, you've known that for a while. I'm trying to help you out here."

"Maybe I was just getting another angle on the job…"

There was a long exhale of cigarette smoke.

"Look pal, it's your neck."

The phone went down but he need not have bothered with the warning. Without much information all they could do was come up with The Eye, which they did. When Mason called to give him own name and a few clients off and on the books, none of which could have been their guy, Mr. Blithe asked to be remembered to Miss Street and let it drop.

_**-The Eye 1972-**_

You had to really want, or need, to go to Brazil to make it worth the 16, 17-hour flight.

The Eye flew down a few days before Mason and Della, his plane plowing through three storms, one worse than the next. All of the bourbon in the world couldn't make it right and when he stumbled off the plane he looked like a bed sheet that hadn't been changed in a year.

A few days later when The Eye watched as Della Street de-planed carrying her train case, her other arm on Perry Mason who carried their briefcases, she was lovely in a stunning black and white check suit of very light wool. Mason, in a gray checked sport coat and tie, didn't look too bad either and as they glided through the airport people stared_. _

The Eye had seen that look thousands of times with his various subjects, especially with Mason and his secretary. Even if people, as in Brazil, didn't know _who_ exactly they were, it was clear they were meant to be watched. Never would The Eye elicit such a look, in fact, his job was to be unseen.

It wore on the nerves after a while.

A black car spirited the couple off to their bungalows on Ipanema Beach. They had two, one right next to the other, although one stood empty during their stay. The Eye had broken into Della's desk one night to get their itinerary—efficient and detail-oriented as she was every side trip, appointment and dinner, complete with addresses and phone numbers, was there.

One unseasonably warm evening as the couple was snuggling on Mason's terrace, and The Eye was next door on his, Mason asked her to get him a new suitcase for the trip then asked—begged really—if he might be able to talk her into a little shopping for herself. Instead of fighting him, as she usually did when he wanted to spend money on her, she gave a shy, happy, little nod which made him grin like a little boy and squeeze her in a huge bear hug.

Mason wore his usual Malibu attire around the bungalow, although she had picked up a few things for him, too, including a new linen suit in cream and expensive, matching Panama hat, some longer bathing trunks and shorts and a few, over-sized, linen shirts, stark white, that he wore out over his trousers, as he liked to do.

The Eye realized that he was going to have to ditch his usual suits for this trip and gave his wife a handful of bills to buy a few things for him. Reminding him of what shock did to bad hearts, she grabbed her bag and was the out the door before he stopped laughing—afraid as she was that he would change his mind.

_**-The Eye 1972-**_

Perry Mason and Della Street had come to Rio de Janeiro for yet another high-powered case—to regain control of music rights for some famous Brazilian singer—and The Eye thought it was supposed to be a 10-day affair. Contentious negotiations dragged on, however, and Mason's investigation was sabotaged so severely that Paul Drake had to bring a team down to help.

Then there was the fact that Mason and his secretary were enjoying Brazil!

They seldom took "real" vacations—much to the chagrin of The Eye who found it easier to get the _right_ kinds of shots when people were away from home. Malibu was the best place to shoot them, Mason's boat a nightmare and he took them out on it _a lot. _It was clear why—although The Eye only got close enough to shoot once—Della Street completely lost her inhibitions on that boat.

Even on nights when the water hung still as glass that thing _rocked_ like it was in a typhoon, her sonorous voice spreading out over the waves. Mason used to brag to anyone who would listen that she made "the best first mate" ever, which always made her blush.

Summer had come to Rio and it was hot as Hades as far as The Eye was concerned but Mason and Della reveled like 20-year olds in this vibrant town, saturated with heat, sound and color. Days later The Eye was still adjusting to the time change and difficult travel but Brazil had taken years off Mason; or maybe it was watching her in Brazil.

Before cocktails, they would strip off their business suits and slip into the summery, sexy clothes of any Rio tourist. As was the fashion Della's dresses were much shorter now, only fair since it had been a tragedy covering those gams all of these years, and in Brazil she often opted to go bare-legged.

Rio pulled them in and pushed them out like waves on a shore and they rolled with it—parties and exotic shows where Della spent half the evening with her head turned to the side and her mouth covered by her palm; samba joints so small the musicians played _at_ the rickety tables; jazz clubs where they smoked and listened until Della's head drooped on his shoulder and he took her home.

Although it wasn't officially Carnival, every night in this town felt like a festival and The Eye was a tag-along visitor—the pitted, doughy, second cousin a friend forced on your Christmas party.

Cristo Redentor towered over the city, arms outstretched as he surveyed Rio's nightly debaucheries from his perch atop Corcovado Mountain. Sugarloaf stood in the distance stalwart and noble.

On the new tram to the top of the mountain, The Eye thought sure he was going to be ill. Della Street ran back and forth excitedly from one view to the other, making the tram swing and prompting another green-gilled passenger to plead as he grasped his stomach, "Have a heart, lady. Have a heart…"

Mason tenderly curled his hand under her upper arm, pulling his embarrassed girl onto his lap. Nuzzling her neck and chuckling, he thankfully managed to hold her still the rest of the trip.

Most nights they ate at local joints, where Mason felt they would get a better feel for _real _Brazilian cuisine. Adega Flor Coimbre, once the home of painter Candido Portinari but since the 30s a Bohemian bar where artists gathered, became a regular haunt. Mason loved the artistic feel and Miss Street could not get enough of their Caipirinhas.

Unofficially the drink of Brazil Caipirinhas, were a heady mixture of lime, brown sugar and cachaça, local liquor made of fermented sugar can juice. The Eye found Caipirinhas quite tasty himself but swore off after one too many found him almost stealing Miss Street when she sambaed away from her boss.

Mason and Street's bungalow, on Ipanema Beach, was set back in an area lush with exotic flowers, palms and thickets of tropical bushes and brush. The Eye heard Della remark, as she wrapped her arms around Mason's bare waist, that it was like their own jungle, completely private—and she was right, except for The Eye of course.

Stretched out against one another on towels in the sand they were bronze in no time, particularly Mason. The sun spun threads of gold and red in Della's hair and she wore a series of modestly sexy bathing suits—the white two-piece with a gold chain The Eye's favorite—although they never were _on_ her very long.

One afternoon they walked to Copacabana Beach, The Eye following behind, trying not to lose them but not be seen either. Della wore a black one-piece with a plunging halter top that revealed the luscious outer curves of her soft breasts when she moved. Around her short hair she tied a thin, purple scarf, letting the tails flow down her back. Mason had bought her a black silk shawl hand-embroidered with purple Corsage orchids, the national flower of Brazil, which she wrapped around her waist, low on her slim hips.

She didn't look 20, didn't look like the half-naked nymphs running around on the sand, but she sure didn't look like she could be their mothers. Men and boys whistled in her wake. Self-consciously she smiled behind her huge, black sunglasses, and held tight to a very proud Mason.

They walked arms around each other's waists, which The Eye had never seen them do before. Every few hundred yards Mason stopped, pulled her in front of him, pushed her glasses up her nose so he could look into her eyes and kissed her.

Long and passionate, the kisses were accompanied by Mason's fingers tickling her as they slipped in and out of the halter, so quick the average person didn't even witness it. But The Eye did and it was immortalized along with her sly smile.

Hundreds of young kids and their VW Bug-like cars strapped with surfboards crowded the sidewalks of the beach, reminding The Eye of Venice only with much more skin. Each time her lover ambled toward the surfboard stands, tempted, Della would laughingly drag him back to her where he was safe.

Some nights they had duties, although they obviously preferred to be alone. Della kept him on the dance floor until the wee hours, captive to her samba, and bossa nova. Under the torches that lit the patios they followed the music until Mason couldn't stand it anymore, trying to drag her back to the bungalow. Eyes glittering, Della kept him in front of the band, their bodies snug, their hips undulating.

When they weren't caught up in Latin dances of the country they were dancing to big bands playing at the city's best restaurants, where they took their business meetings. Some of the men brought wives and some didn't but _no one_ ever minded Della being there and, just as it was at home, it never occurred to Mason that she wouldn't be welcome.

When a favorite song of theirs played, Mason would hold up his hand with a smile and a single word, "Gentlemen."

Taking Della by the hand Mason led her to the dance floor where the graceful couple's loving looks were watched by many. Ever aware of the eyes, they tried studiously to maintain balance between romance and propriety.

One night, they failed miserably.

They had had a long day of work first at meetings where much went wrong, then at the bungalow. Paul had just arrived in town but Mason was being attacked on every front and he feared for his client. That fear manifested itself nowhere more clearly than in the horrible way he treated Della.

The only other time The Eye, who was crouching down under some brush outside their bungalow, had seen him treat her as badly was when she was nearly charged as an accessory to murder. At least then she had some responsibility. Today it was like kicking a puppy the way he scolded her or yelled at her every time she did something. Even Drake saw it and wrapped his arms around her for a few minutes when Mason left the room to speak on the phone.

By the time they got to dinner, Della Street was a nervous wreck. Although you wouldn't know it from the way she looked. The sublime Miss Street's sophistication had set the room abuzz from the moment she walked in. Short hair teased just a bit on top, side curls pushed behind her ears, high heels working even more magic on an already beautiful backside and a stunning cream-colored crepe silk dress made her tan seem even darker.

The Eye had wondered about that dress when he overheard a woman at a neighboring cocktail table ask her friend if she had seen it then went on to describe it as a form-fitting low-neck cocktail dress with a baby doll lace tent overlay. Marveling at the things women knew, he listened intently as the friend pointed out that elbow-high gloves were becoming passé unless you were able to wear them like Della.

Still she was subdued, and as the men spoke, focused mainly on the extremely smooth band. Was it the way she stared down into her champagne, or how quietly she ordered? Was it the way she fumbled, uncharacteristically, when she searched her small purse for something.

Whatever it was, Mason's grimace indicated he knew she was fragile and that it was his fault. Gently borrowing her miniature notepad and pen he scribbled a few lines and ripped out the page. Calling over the waiter he handed him the paper with two 10-dollar bills, one for the him and one for the band leader, and whispered something to him. In a few minutes the band leader nodded at Mason as the song he was playing ended.

Perry stood, excused them and literally lifted her from her chair. As they headed to the dance floor Freddy Cole, brother of the late Nat King Cole, announced, "By request…" then proceeded to follow Della with his eyes who had already buried her head in Perry's shoulder.

_In this world of ordinary people  
Extraordinary people  
I'm glad, there is you_

_In this world of over-rated pleasures  
And under-rated treasures  
I'm so glad, there is you_

_I live to love  
I love to live with you beside me  
This role so new  
I'll muddle through with you to guide me_

_In this world where many, many play at love  
And hardly any stay in love  
I'm glad, there is you  
More than ever, I'm glad, there is you_

Perry's stomach gnawed at him, a constant reminder of how badly he had treated Della today. Della Street who was always there for him, who took on each of his problems as her own, who eagerly put him first in her life..

As they danced, he sang the last few bars in her ear and she beamed.

_In this world where many, many play at love  
And hardly ever stay in love  
I'm glad, there is you  
More than ever, I'm glad, there is you_

As The Eye watched the couple dance, he realized they were so far away it was going to be hard for them to return to the real world, return to their dinner. True to his instincts, when the singer started on a slow, jazzy version of "Our Love is Here to Stay," Perry held her even closer.

_It's very clear, our love is here to stay  
Not for a year but ever and a day  
The radio and the telephone and the movies that we know  
May just be passing fancies and in time may go  
_

Perry loved to dance with Della; in truth it was the only "athletic" endeavor at which he had ever excelled. With her in his arms, he was Astaire when in reality he was decidedly not; although dear Della was fond of telling him he led better than any man with whom she had ever danced.

_But oh, my dear, our love is here to stay  
Together we're going a long, long way  
In time the Rockies may tumble, Gibraltar may crumble  
They're only made of clay  
But our love is here to stay  
_

Mason stopped for a moment and pulled her just far enough away to look into her eyes. Drawing a finger along her jaw he tapped her chin twice before kissing her quickly on the lips and moving them around the floor again.

_In time the Rockies may tumble, Gibraltar may crumble  
They're only made of clay  
But our love is here to stay_

When they finished, Della's head was still under his chin, as he reached around her to clap, nodding at the band leader and Mr. Cole. As the started again, Mason cuddled her in his arm, walking her out onto the terrace, shielding her as they went.

Relentless on this trip, The Eye searched the large wrap-around space constructed of the finest rose marble. Plenty of people were out there, smoking, drinking, dancing, but not Mason and Della. He walked back inside just in time to see a note being delivered to their table.

The Eye guessed they were on their way back to the bungalow. They had an unbroken record of love-making in Rio, and tonight looked like another sure thing.

_**-The Eye 1972-**_

Never had The Eye seen two people so endlessly fascinated with one another in bed, or out for that matter.

They had been sleeping together, by his count, for 20 years now and were both in their 50s—almost anyway. Their creativity, their openness, which was in stark contrast to their outward appearance and behavior, and their insatiable mutual lust, was unparalleled.

Really, they were to be congratulated. They should have written a book about what kept them so mutually attracted, thought The Eye—he would have bought it. The Eye assumed that not being married had a lot to do with their success over the years.

In early evening they laid bound by each other's arms on a chaise by the swimming pool, which made as it was of black stone and surrounded by banks of orchids, was more like a lagoon. They talked of the case, of Brazil and the places they were going to visit before they went home, the foods they had, or had yet to try. Their voices laced together, deep as spiced rum, hummed against the night.

The Eye, who sometimes wondered how Mason really felt about Della Street, saw on this trip just how vulnerable he was to her. When she turned her chin up to him, opening her smile wide, it put him on the spot and he acted like an embarrassed schoolboy, unsure what to do with the prettiest girl in school. Della always took pity on him then, drawing his head into her shoulder, stroking his brow.

Perry would move her on top of his body, unzipping her dress and slipping the straps down her shoulders. When she was naked he would stare as the moonlight lit her skin, translucent, his fingers tracing the tan lines of her two-piece suit making him grin.

Some nights they slipped into the pool, naked, Mason pinning her to the side with his thick body, pulling her slim legs up and around him. Other nights they went down to the ocean, the sea foam lapping at their legs.

Seeing Perry Mason playing naked with her in the water was quite a sight and by the end of the trip The Eye decided he had seen enough of his fat ass to last several life times. It was difficult, however, not to enjoy their fun here in Brazil where they were carefree.

As large as he was when they were done splashing around in the water he always wrapped her in his arms and carried her up the beach to their towels. Della would snuggle face down Mason covered her with another towel and eventually, himself.

When he had her warmed up, he would turn her gently on her back, his enormous hands exploring her body, her hands anchored to his shoulders. Mason's head dropped—his teeth, lips and fingertips finding skin hardened by him, by arousal, by night breezes against her dampness.

The moon was so bright on them that if he held the F-stop long enough, he might be able to get some pictures. Even in 1972, a famous, middle-aged attorney and his secretary, unmarried and having sex on the beach, was going to be worth something to someone.

That was why The Eye could go on with this job, much as he hated what he might be doing to Della Street—it _was _his _job_ and he was good at it and _that _had to count for something. Or that's what he told himself.

_**-The Eye 1972-**_

Squealing, dripping with sugar and entirely too familiar, a voice echoed through the lobby. They had been leaving the elegant dining room of one of Rio de Janeiro's most elite hotels with a small pack of businessmen, The Eye sitting off to the side in a chair behind some plants, when they all heard it.

"Perry! Perry darling…." a curvy woman with a swirling mound of red hair, heavy eye make-up and a leopard jacket, ran to him on tip toe like a little girl.

Della Street, who had been in Perry Mason's arm, first seemed aghast then rolled her eyes as a familiar figure wedged her body between them, forcing Della to the side. Reaching up with bright red talons, the women pulled Mason's face towards her, kissing him squarely in the lips; a kiss, Mason didn't "_not"_ return.

"Eva Belter!" Perry almost yelled when she had finished. "What in Hell are you doing in Brazil?"

Reaching for Della, he pulled her stiffened body back into him.

Eva Belter!

The Eye had worked for her husband, although he hadn't known that's who he was working for until after the guy was murdered, and taken damaging photos of numerous important Californians for his private blackmail operation. At the time, The Eye remembered Mason threatening to go after him for blackmailing a client and friend of theirs who ended up committing suicide. Belter was murdered first.

Mrs. Belter had inveigled her way into Mason's good graces, simultaneously making him look like a possible suspect. The Eye watched as Della Street fumed around that office for days calling the woman "poison," among other things.

Using more trickery than Belter could muster or decipher, Mason finally wrenched the truth out of her and uncovered the real murderer. Then despite promising Mason that she was closing down Spicy Bits, her late husband's trash magazine, Belter realized the money-making machine it could be—even without blackmail—and double-crossed Mason. Incensed, Mason fired her as a client and hadn't had anything to do with her since.

"Perry, darling…you make me feel as if you're not as happy to see me as I am to see you…" the woman pretended to pout.

"Stunned would be more like it," Perry held tight to Della, who must have decided not to give the woman an inch because she was curled against her lover now, smiling sweetly.

Understandably Mason had been unable to keep his hands off her tonight and their intimate body language was not lost on the woman who The Eye suddenly recognized.

"How nice," oozed Eva with fake charity as she eyed Della, "You brought the little worker bee with you.

Della puckered her lips, biting the corner of her mouth, and looked down. "And my what the well-dressed _secretary_ is wearing…in _Brazil_…"

Belter gave a fake giggle. Della hated that giggle.

"Eva, Della comes everywhere with me. She always has…"

"Well, my hard working Perry probably never knows when he's going to need a good…" Eva Belter let it hang before punching the word hard in her fake baby girl voice. "Stenographer."

Eva Belter shrugged with a mean smile then took Perry's other elbow, "Well, darling, let's you and I go off for a private chat."

"Let's not."

"Well, I need some representation Perry darling," Eva's eyes went wide and gamine. "You wouldn't leave me in the lurch, would you?"

"Eva I'm afraid that you've proved yourself to be untrustworthy in every sense of the word."

"Oh Perry darling, I think you will be only too willing to help me out of my…jam," Eva looked pointedly at Della Street with an innocent smile. "You know, Miss Street, you really should have been in the movies you photograph so well…"

Eva tried to thread her arm through Mason's but he slid out of her grip. Grabbing her wrist, he nudged her body away from his. But it was Della Street who, with a resolve and ice in her voice that The Eye had never before heard, answered the woman's not terribly well camouflaged threats.

"We will _**not**_ be blackmailed Eva Belter so don't even think about it. If you so much as attempt it, you will end up in jail, which is probably where you belong anyway."

Eva Belter was so astonished at Della Street's impertinence that her eyes turned black, her mouth a mean, crimped line of malevolence. Della thought she had at last unmasked the real woman. Perry Mason, smile crooked, was _**almost**_ too proud of his young lady to notice.

Eva Belter pouted, fake tears sprouting in her eyes as she spoke, "But Perry darling. I need help. He's been an absolute brute to me. You know you are the only good man who's ever been in my life. He wants the magazine. In fact he says if he doesn't get it…"

Eva Belter, who had pulled a handkerchief from her alligator bag, was dabbing at her dry eyes.

"What?"

Eva giggled this time behind her fake sniffle, "Oh Perrrry darling…that's not important. Will you help me? I _need_ you so."

Belter tilted her chin up, pursing her lips. How, wondered The Eye, could feminine wiles be so different depending on the women? On Della Street that same affectation was alluring, adorable. Eva Belter just appeared mentally unbalanced.

"Eva," Della said using the familiar and making Eva Belter's eyes go wide. "Perry doesn't handle divorce, you know that."

Belter ignored Della and turning to Perry again, explaining, "Well, Perry darling this isn't really about divorce. I want you to handle _negotiations_ for my magazine."

"What does Harrison want?"

"Perry darling you won't believe it, you just won't. After all of my hard work, he wants to shut the magazine down. And he says that he can do it!"

"Eva I would like nothing better than to see Spicy Bits burned to the ground. I have no intention of helping you keep it going or gain complete control of it. That, I'm afraid, would be like entrusting a toddler with a loaded gun."

"Perry darling don't leave little Eva all to herself. You know when that happens I just do whatever comes into my mind first," Belter's eyes were so wide now he false eyelashes threatened to get tangled in her bangs.

"That sounds like a threat again, Eva. Della, make a note, when we get home, call Harrison Burke."

Eva, not understanding, practically jumped up and down with joy but Della, mouth twisted in a sarcastic smile, understood all too well.

"Oh Perry darling! Thank you! I knew you wouldn't let me down. Now you meet me in the bar in five minutes, alone…" Eva pressed herself against him so there was a breast on either side of his arm, "And we'll talk business."

"Eva," said Perry extracting his arm from the admittedly well-cushioned valley. "I have no intention of meeting you. I do intend to see what I can do to help Harrison as soon as we get back to Los Angeles."

Suddenly Eva Belter's face turned as scarlet as her hair. Without another word, she yanked her handsome, young Brazilian friend around and stomped away.

As long as he was down here, and Belter was down here, The Eye thought he might do some freelance work on his own behalf, a little reconnaissance, as it were. Of course it had occurred to him that Eva Belter was his boss but it didn't ring quite true. She had the meanness and quite possibly the money but she definitely did not have the connections to set up this kind of operation.

No, it probably wasn't Spicy Bits and Eva Belter but she bore watching and tonight, just in case, instead of following Mason and his secretary home The Eye was going to cherchez Eva Belter. But The Eye was curious about the feats of romantic pleasure he was going to miss.

_**-The Eye 1972-**_

Ike had loved this trip…and hated it.

Just as he loved this job….and hated it.

Cocktail in hand, The Eye settled into the roomy first row of first class—happy that he splurged—and considered the successful business trip they had all enjoyed. Mason vindicated the singer and protected his rights; The Eye shot 26 rolls of film, a terrific haul especially considering what was _on_ the film.

For twenty years The Eye had been shooting those two in flagrante delicto. But as Mason had said five years ago, the further along the years got, how much less important this all became! The joke was on whomever had paid him all of this money. Right now all that this film proved to The Eye was that they were human beings.

Working its magic, the bourbon had The Eye nice and loose. Exhausted from following those two all over Brazil for over three weeks, he fully expected to be sound asleep soon and hoped he would stay that way for at least half the trip.

In the meantime he reached into his briefcase for something to read and pulled out the Los Angeles Times he brought with him almost a month ago but had never gotten around to reading.

Later when he thought about it, it was almost as if he knew that it was going to be there. A small piece at the top of the National page with the short-list of attorneys and judges legal experts considered likely candidates for judgeships, including the Holy Grail.

There was just one line pertaining to Mason but it said it all.

"_Brilliant, eminently just and already a legend, sources say that Los Angeles Defense Attorney Perry Mason is at the very top or a very short list of Democrats' list of Supreme Court nominees."_

After searching years for the answer to his question, The Eye now had not one but two viable possible suspects. Well, one, Eva Belter, and a _reason_. Not that Mason ever seemed to have much interest in anything other than be the best defense attorney and detective the world had ever known; still you couldn't be sure what would happen if a carrot like the Supreme Court was dangled in front of a man.

Mason represented hundreds of business clients over the years, which he often ended up firing. The Eye had watched time and again as his sense of right put him at odds with a client's lack of scruples. Plenty of interests would fear Perry Mason on the Supreme Court; in fact, anyone who didn't truly believe in justice or didn't honestly _understand the Constitution_ would not want that particular man on the highest court in the land.

The Eye felt sick to his stomach and it wasn't the flight or the bourbon.

Before he finished reading the sentence, though, he made a decision. If the time came he would go to Mason and come clean.

It was the only thing to do.

_**-The Eye 1972-**_

In the back right hand corner of the last row of first class, an extremely tall, handsome gray-haired gentleman, let the pretty young stewardess who had tucked herself into the empty seat next to him, flirt madly.

"A private eye? Really?"

"Shhhh…you bet!"

"Wow. That's exciting! Do you carry a…" she looked around and dropped her voice even lower, "Gun?"

"Nah. A guy could get shot that way," he laughed.

The stewardess giggled, slapping his arm. "Gee I would love to hear more about your work…"

"You have a layover in L.A.?"

"I'm from L.A."

"Well…isn't that convenient?"

"Let me go get you a refill…"

"Okay…"

"First…"

"Yes?" he smiled.

"Tell me," she whispered sliding back into the seat.

"What was the most difficult job you were ever on?" Those gorgeous eyes, which had captivated Paul as soon as he boarded, grew huge in anticipation.

Paul drained his drink, the ice banging against the side of the glass. Shaking his head, he gave a sardonic smile.

"Honestly?"

The girl nodded eagerly.

"It's not going to sound that exciting …"

"That's okay. You can tell me the exciting stuff over dinner on Friday night," she rested her chin on her fist and smiled at him.

Paul gave her a huge grin and looked down. Lighting a cigarette, he sighed as he blew smoke away from her.

"The hardest job I have young lady, is watching my friends' back…"

If she had longed for adventure, the sweet honesty she got instead made her eyes tear up.

"And it just might kill me, yet."

Taking the empty glass from him, the young lady replaced it with a slip of paper, squeezing his hand behind her.

"Yup…"Drake said looking out the window and doing what he did best, smoking. "It just might kill me yet."

Music

"I'm Glad There is You" -Rosemary Clooney, Ella Fitzgerald are my favorite version although Peggy Lee and Freddy Cole's are good, too.

"Our Love is Here to Stay"-Nat King Cole, I can not stress this enough. Dinah Washington's is smooth, too. But Nat, oh Nat.


	7. Chapter 7

_**This does reference "TCOT Evil Eight" and "The Day They Met" but they are not imperative reads.**_

_**Summer, 1977**_

_**Los Angeles, CA**_

The Eye walked several paces behind the lumbering attorney who had his head down and his briefcase beneath his arm. The guy had gotten so big he couldn't even put a hand in his pants pocket anymore without it looking almost obscene. The Eye, on the other hand, had gotten so thin his daughter said if a good breeze hit him he was going to float away.

Mason, once a hulking, friendly figure in the Brent Building—at the shoe shine stand or newsstand, at Clay's and the diner that preceded it—was now virtually unapproachable. With a smile or wave, people tried to get his attention as he walked through the lobby but he barely acknowledged anyone.

The loses Mason and Della Street had endured over the last several years had piled up quickly. In the evenings, as he and Della worked late into the night, Ike heard Mason lament that there were fewer and fewer people he was compelled to represent. America's "raging lack of civility and abandonment of manners," as he often bellowed, was a personal effrontery to Mason. Aloof and detached, it didn't seem as if the great attorney with an answer to almost everything had an understanding of, let alone an answer to, his mourning.

The Eye understood.

In fact, over almost three decades of watching the man behind a lens The Eye understood a great deal about this complex, deeply flawed, and decent, almost noble, man; a great deal but not _everything_.

Ike "The Eye" Isaacs would never understand how he could leave _her_.

_**-THE EYE, 1977-**_

Ancient and exhausted; that's how Ike was feeling. So with Della Street shot then recuperating, his Mason contact vanished (The Eye assumed it was the same as when Mason was sick and he was warned to leave them alone) Ike curtailed his documenting of the Mason-Street Affair, as he came, jokingly to call it.

Fact is, without anyone to threaten or cajole him, The Eye had stopped shooting the couple altogether and the further it retreated from his usually unforgiving memory, the better he liked life. Partially retired and only taking legitimate, on-the-books jobs, he used part of each day to try and unravel his own mystery. A mystery, which he hated to admit, had provided a comfortable life for his family and in which he played a key role. But he never got very far.

Then, a few weeks back something extraordinary, and extraordinarily unexpected, happened. From the state's highest office came rumblings, dribbling out slowly at first and then rushing in a torrent of gossip, that Governor Jerry Brown had succeeded where others failed; that he managed to talk Perry Mason into taking a seat on the State Court of Appeals.

Mason was 60 now, a venerable legal legend feared and admired—and hated—across party lines. Nearly every article boasted that there wasn't anywhere he couldn't go after this appointment, from Governor (and there was a lot of money on that one) to the Senate to the lesser Attorney General. But most often his name came up in a sentence ending with the phrase "Supreme Court;" the greatest, certainly the most historic, of all government seats next to President.

Every time he read those potent words, The Eye remembered that flight home from Rio five years before. At the time, such a change in the life of Perry Mason and Della Street seemed inconceivable. Of course he knew that it bore watching—for The Eye's own safety if no other reason.

That trip to Brazil, which they lengthened more than once, seemed to act as a "second honeymoon" for two people who had never had a first one. From his not-too distant perches The Eye watched them after they returned home, even closer and more loving than they were before they left.

Something had changed on that trip. The patina built on their relationship, up over time, was burnished now, warmer, more lustrous but with a renewed brightness. Mason grew ever more dour except for Della. Painfully evident, his need for her was just as intrinsic to him as Plato's four elements were to all living things.

The Eye was content to leave them to it for a while.

As he feared, however, not long after the current judge buzz about Mason started to appear in the press Ike got an envelope in his post box, unmarked of course, with a plain piece of paper on which was typed a single sentence, "You have been paid."

The Eye knew what that meant. It meant get back to work.

So he did.

Most of what was written in the press was still just speculation and The Eye couldn't say that he really believed that the attorney would give up his still-thriving practice and go off to the other end of the state. But both he and Della Street were in for quite a shock.

On The Eye's first night back on Mason's terrace sheltered by some potted trees next to the open sliding door, they learned the truth. After numerous meetings held in great secrecy outside of the office, Perry Mason, her lover and partner of nearly 30 years, sat Della down to tell her that he was accepting the appointment; that he was going to be a judge.

What he was really telling her was that she was on her own from now on. Not _entirely_ on her own perhaps but far more than she had expected to be at this stage of her life. Sharp as he was, Mason didn't fully comprehend what he was doing to her, to them. But Della knew almost instantly—_almost _instantly.

The Eye watched, as he had been watching since 1949, through his third eye.

At first she was speechless—unlike her—and Mason stood, hands in front of him, one laying on the other as he waited. Slowly her shock began to subside and she queried him rather aggressively, finally pointing out that he had always been dismissive about becoming a judge. Unconvincingly, he offered a few meager reasons that changed his mind, including it being the next logical step in his career. Della Street apparently sensed he was not going to be genuinely forthcoming about this and let it drop.

What she didn't ask was why he hadn't consulted her about it in any detail. But the question hung heavy in the space between them.

Della tucked her hurt away and took the high road. With eyes glistening, indicating to Ike that she was on shaky ground, she beamed with pride, throwing her arms around him. Once in his arms her tears fell down his back but a single finger blotted those without him knowing—it helped that he held her in what seemed like a death grip for quite a while.

When they pulled slightly away from one another, he couldn't avoid what he saw. Nudging a stray curl back from her forehead he kissed her on the nose just as he used to every morning when they were younger.

Those great eyes were always on the sad side, easily masking his feelings, making him inscrutable. Suddenly they betrayed him as much as hers usually betrayed her. The hard part was clearly ahead. Putting Della on the couch Mason pulled in his reading chair, hard backed and straight, close to her and sat.

Perry watched Della curl up on the couch as if she were still a girl, long legs pulled up to the aide and crossed at the calf. Cradling her brandy she listened to him talk for several minutes as if he was a stranger. Della was waiting him out. After all of their years together, there was news he needed to deliver and his agile mind was working to get there.

At last Mason took a very deep breath and plunged into a succinct explanation of why he could not take her with him as his secretary. Justices shared two secretaries, he explained, and they just answered phones and kept schedules. Each judge was assigned a law clerk and they did the tasks Della was used to performing.

The Eye wondered if Mason was having as much trouble reading her as he was. Her brow was slightly furrowed, eyes gently narrowed but she seemed to be disguising the force of what this all meant to her life with compassion for him.

Over the next hour the conversation wore on scratching and twisting, distant and strange as if the two people in it hadn't been in love for nearly three decades. When Mason finally got around to asking her if she would come up to San Francisco with him, The Eye felt as giddy as a teenage girl.

Della looked down shyly, then broke into a warm, enormous grin and said, "Of course, Dear."

From his hidden vantage point The Eye could see the weight of Mason's mistake on him, forcing that leonine head so far down it was almost at his knees. From his prone position Mason delivered the blow, clarifying what he really meant by thanking Della, telling her that her help setting up his apartment and new office would be invaluable.

Mason chose not to see it but he had to have heard it. A deep gasp then The Eye watched Della's head snap back so hard it was as if that meaty paw of his caught her on the cheek. Tucking her chin into a shoulder, her chest rising and falling rapidly Della swallowed hard and looked up—a small child who had been reprimanded and was suffering that excruciating mix of embarrassment and hurt.

And yet, with what The Eye thought had to be superhuman grace possessed by no other woman in the world, Della acknowledged his blunder without rebuke.

"Of course, Perry..."

Then she threw a hair dryer into the bathtub.

_Della Katherine Street drew the line. _

Rising unsteadily from the couch (she ordered many years ago), setting her drink on the coffee table (she chose to go with it a few years after), straightening her sweater (that she bought because he loved this color on her) Della announced that it was late and time for her to be getting home.

The Eye took evil pleasure in her inadvertent retaliation and Mason's face looking as if he had just gotten a guilty verdict. Brandy snifter tipping in his great palm, he just stared at her mouth open.

Della, jacket around her shoulders, studied her shoes at the door, holding her handbag in front of her by the two straps. Mason was still unable to move.

Finally, he set down his brandy and he had to push himself up, hands on his knees.

"Yes, of course, Della."

She was out the door before he even reached it.

Hovering over the street from his terrace like a gargoyle on the side of a building, The Eye watched as they walked to his car. As high up as he was it didn't look as if they exchanged any words and he had never seen her walk so far from his side. Mason held her car door, which she pressed herself against and as they drove off The Eye wondered how long it would be before he was back.

Turned out it was less than 15 minutes.

The Eye wasn't surprised.

Over the next several weeks, newspapers trumpeted the news of Mason's defection for the bench and the opposite end of the state. Gossip columns gleefully speculated about Della Street and Perry Mason just like the old days. Would his longtime secretary and, most believed, romantic partner be going with him as his wife; might she even one day be California's First Lady?

Those articles, and they were plentiful, must have clawed at Della. After all of this time, after everything he had asked of her and the way she had lived her life. The Eye could not imagine what he was thinking. How was this going to look?

Mason himself didn't seem to do well at all without her and The Eye wondered how _he_ would manage. There was constant talk, from him mostly, about commuting on weekends but it was written on their faces, particularly on Della's—neither of them understood how "commuting" was going to work.

After all he had seen of these two through the vantage point of his third eye Ike would never have believed it. They should have been celebrating their silver wedding anniversary as Ike and his wife had eight years before.

Three years ago, for their 30th wedding anniversary, Ike had taken Cora Mae on a cruise around the Hawaiian Islands for almost a month. It cost a mint and he was damn glad he did it. Six months after they got home, three months after their third grandchild was born, she was gone; heart attack.

Cora Mae took ill on one of the few evenings he was home and while Ike didn't deserve fate's good will in this regard, she did. Waiting for the ambulance Ike held her across his lap as they held hands, smiling at each other. No words were necessary.

Ike Isaacs had done many things in life of which he was not proud. But leaving behind a woman who had lived his life for him, that was something he would never do.

_**-DELLA & PERRY, 1977-**_

Perry came in to what had become a familiar sight: Della Street packing. She had insisted on doing so much of it herself it was almost humorous. Except that there was no humor in this situation.

Fearing the work was physically too much for her—and he did not even want to consider the emotional toll it was taking—Perry repeatedly suggested that movers were being paid to pack. In short, terse sentences, so foreign to Della Street, she asserted that only she could pack most of the things in their offices and Perry offering to help earned a crisp shake of her head.

Perry knew that Della, blind-sided by his decision to close their practice, was deeply wounded at least in part because he had not invited her to come with him. But while Perry needed Della and wanted her with him, how could he ask her to come with their lives as they were?

They weren't married and on the verge of taking his oath as a judge, for which she would be standing next to him of course, this didn't seem like the right time to walk down the aisle. And they couldn't live in San Francisco as they had in Los Angeles. Working together was the reason they had gotten away with so much all of these years.

Della had known this all along. But Perry, whose protective instincts had always been fierce when it came to Della, felt something else more deeply than she could, partially because he shielded her so well all of these years.

There were sinister forces at work in their lives. Had anyone else thought and felt that, he might rightly have been accused of paranoia. As the country's most famous defense attorney, Perry Mason had seen too much not to know what was really out there, however.

Hardly a moment passed without worry that just _taking_ this position might somehow compromise them in some way. Just as few nights had passed in the last 30 years without him worrying in the dark about Della Street's reputation.

How many times did he see 4AM lying on his back after they made love, one arm holding her naked body against him, smoking a cigarette over her head as she slept so innocently, so sweetly on his chest? There was so much only Della knew; the darkest secrets of his soul and Perry Mason had more than a few. Even if she didn't always know _what_ was worrying him, she knew when he was fretting. Only Della knew how deeply he felt things—something he worked hard to hide all of these years although he suspected repeatedly sticking his neck out the way he did for clients, precariously and with abandon, may have been a tip off to his enemies.

Most important, more than anything really, was how much he loved her and it tormented him that he could never truly express this to her. As she lay in the back of that ambulance months ago, the life ebbing from her body, Perry faced an immutable truth. He could not go on without her. Had she been stolen from him that day he knew with certainty that he would have gone out of his mind.

Perry Mason felt something closing in on him, on them, and he had felt it since long before Paul was murdered and Della was shot. Something dark and evil headed toward them. This drastic, harrowing change was his stab at intercepting it.

Surrounded by murder for forty years, Perry wore a coat of armor built from knowledge and acceptance that he could be killed at any moment. He had long been prepared for it but he hadn't prepared himself for what happened to the two most important people in his life—there had been no way _to _prepare for it.

They had saved countless lives but in so doing had made as many enemies as they had friends. For years now, Macbeth had played on a loop in his exhausted brain, "By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes."

And it had. The Second Witch was right. Mason's thumbs tingled day and night. Despite what had befallen them, it wasn't necessarily over. If they continued they would only get in deeper and how could he protect her then?

Mason knew that in court he could beat _anyone_ at _any_ challenge. But everyone else knew that, too, and times were so different now that revenge wasn't content to take its chances. Revenge played dirty. Revenge hurt people you loved, even killed them.

Perry Mason was ensnared in the penultimate Catch-22.

And so, his beautiful girl packed.

In her pragmatic, earthy way this packing was Della trying desperately to make sense of a paradigm shift in their lives the only way she knew how; by organizing and arranging it. Della needed to be able to track where every single piece of their life together was going.

Mesmerized by those slender, elegant hands he loved so well, Perry Mason stood in the doorway for several minutes as she wrapped a few decorative pieces from his office that he wanted to take for his new office, such as it was.

In sheets of newspaper, which she had spent months hoarding for this very task, each item was caressed and remembered then turned over in the paper as if she were creating origami not wrapping bric-a-brac. Then, and _lovingly_ was the only way Perry could describe it, each piece was placed in a well-marked packing box; in this case "PM, SF: OFFICE."

Finished with his things, Della picked up one of their coffee elderly services and Perry stepped in.

"Are you _sure_ you want to put that in storage?"

"I'll pay for it," Della answered, laconic.

"Della, you don't have to pay for our storage. We have to store and all of our tax records anyway so a few extra boxes and some furniture won't matter. I just meant that particular set."

Eyes narrowed to slits Della just looked at him and Perry knew not to say anything else.

Each item Della placed in storage was an act of hope; if not for a last minute stay now, then for a change of heart later on.

This storage was her hope chest.

_**-DELLA & PERRY, 1977-**_

Pain was Della Street's constant companion and it riddled her face making it, at times, impossible for Perry to be around her. He knew that she had to find a new job, start a new life, and it was going to be much harder for her than he could have guessed.

One afternoon, just after the announcement had been made, he came in from a meeting that she had begged off attending to find her resume in her typewriter, abandoned.

Seeing Della's resume—an item he hadn't seen since 1949 and something that had never again occurred to him—shook him. Yellowed, crumpled at the edges, it sat next to her typewriter so she could replicate the first few entries. After typing "_May 2, 1949-July 1, 1977…Perry Mason at Law_," the typewriter had been deserted, left alone to whir away.

Perry's heart skipped a beat, exploding into his office she was nowhere to be seen. As he approached the bathroom door he heard faint sniffling.

"Della?" he whispered.

There was silence and then she called out with an attempt at a light voice, "I'll be out in a minute."

"Della, let me in right now," he demanded, still in a whisper.

"I didn't expect you back for at least another hour," she admitted, tears in her voice.

Della was absolutely right, as always. Sensing how fragile she was lately, especially when she didn't want to come to this meeting, Perry rushed back as soon as he could.

With a hand on the doorknob he pleaded with her, "Della, please…"

"Perry," her voice was so broken it tore at his heart, "Please leave me alone for a while. I didn't mean for you to…please…"

Determined not to leave her Perry pulled a chair next to the door, burning through several cigarettes while he waited for her. Her pain mingled with his fear kept bringing him back to a conversation he had at Clay's bar just after the announcement hit the papers two months ago.

The strange, brittle, shrunken-head of a man seemed familiar to him and it took only seconds before he recognized him from Malibu years before.

_**-THE EYE, DELLA & PERRY, 1977-**_

Carrying his second scotch with him, The Eye sidled up to Mason. The restaurant's owner, a friend of Mason's, had recently passed away and "Clay's" was about to undergo a major change.

Perry was aware of a man next to him, smelling of something he couldn't quite place. After a few minutes he recognized the pungent odor of photo developing chemicals.

"Here come da judge, here come da judge…"

Perry kept quiet. That was the irritating, unmistakable sound of an ax waiting to be ground and he wanted to avoid it if at all possible. In all his years he had never hit a man, at least not in a bar.

Tapping the space in front of his glass, the little man looked at the bartender then threw his head Perry's way. Perry tried to put a hand up but like any good bartender—never miss the chance at another sale—the drink was already poured and on its way to him before he could stop it.

Draining the bourbon out of his old glass Perry picked up the new glass and turned to his benefactor.

"Thank you but I…"

"It's the least I could do, Mason. Believe me…" The Eye didn't look up.

"You look familiar do we know one another?" Perry had his stone face on now, unsure of what was ahead.

In fact, these days and weeks since announcing his career change, Perry had just been waiting for the other shoe to drop. Turning toward him, cigarette hanging from his mouth, The Eye draped an arm over the back of his bar stool. It felt to Perry like those hard eyes were peeling the skin right off his face.

And then Perry saw it.

The Eye's face crinkled and he spat an _emphesymatic_ laugh.

"Malibu."

"Very good, _Your Honor_."

"What do you want?" asked Perry, the sharp hairs at the base of his neck now on end, sticking him.

"How could you leave her?"

"Who are you to her?" Perry slammed down his drink and everyone around them turned.

The Eye held up his drink so the light shone through.

"Not a damn thing. Oh…an admirer…from afar, not too far…that's it."

"What do you want?" Perry kept his head down, pointed toward the bar.

"To give you a little advice," said The Eye as he turned back to face front, "Other way around for a change, huh?"

The Eye gave another laugh-cough.

"Go ahead."

Perry was expecting any number of possibilities, none of them good and all of them likely to cost him _something_.

"There's someone, out there," The Eye waved his cigarette, "Out for you."

Perry turned now.

"No…no…not me," The Eye jammed his cigarette in the ashtray. "And I don't know who it is. But I've got your back…well…"

The Eye squeezed his raisin eyes as he lit yet another cigarette.

"I've got _her_ back."

"What does that mean?"

The Eye lifted his head proudly, defiantly so that he almost had a chin. Pulling his tight lips over his teeth he finished his drink.

"Means I double-crossed 'em," the man threw a ten down on the bar.

Perry started to follow him but The Eye held up a hand.

"I'll be in touch, _Your Honor_."

He never was.

_**-DELLA & PERRY, 1977-**_

Despite having discussed their "future" every day for several hours, neither of them felt comfortable with this separation. They didn't use that word but in the end that is what this was—a separation. At the far end of middle age, they were going to live in distant cities and after working together since the 1940s they were starting new careers, separately.

Perry had to admit he held some excitement about being a judge. It spoke to his love of the law and its interpretations; something in which he had specialized as a defense attorney. As he always told Della, he wasn't better than everyone else he simply knew the law better, including how far was too far when it came to bending it.

Indeed, there was a place for him on this court, although he wondered how long it would take him to grow bored.

And then there was Della.

Movers had spent the day wheeling away their life together as the space around Della grew bigger and bigger. When they were finished she was swallowed up by the room, which suddenly looked old and dated. Outside these walls she was probably going to seem just as old, just as dated, she thought. She certainly felt as empty.

Perry brought in two chairs and a small cocktail table from the terrace—the incoming tenant requested their somewhat new patio furniture so they were leaving it behind—and set up a little conversation area just inside the sliding glass door. Turning on the cassette player, he pointed the speakers toward them.

With the sliding door open the summer breeze immediately filled the cavernous space and Della had an unobstructed view of the sun setting over Los Angeles, over the most painful moment of her 55 years.

Opening the bottle Perry realized he had been wrong to bring champagne. Their post-trial tradition had always been—whether they were alone, with Paul or with clients to whom they had become close, and there were plenty—a champagne toast right in the office. My God, wondered Perry; how many bottles had they opened?

This wasn't a celebration, though. There was a slim chance it could have been, at least in part, had he handled it all differently but it wasn't because he didn't. In the background Teddy Wilson was playing a luscious, mournful version of "Out of Nowhere," one of their favorite songs to dance to when they first knew met—tonight it just added to the sadness of what was happening.

_You came to me from out of nowhere  
You took my heart and found it free  
Wonderful dreams, wonderful schemes from nowhere  
Made every hour sweet as a flower for me_

Perry handed her a glass of rosé bubbles, her favorite. Della would always call it pink champagne like a teenage girl—she so loved pink. He could tell she was listening intently to the words tonight and her attempt at a smile was honest, bless her, but failed.

_If you should go back to your nowhere  
Leaving me with the memory  
I'll always wait for your return out of nowhere  
Hoping you'll bring your love to me_

In every area of his life, including women, Perry was hard, pragmatic; every area except the place Della held. Della was his strength _and_ his Achilles Heel.

The weight of this night, this ending, was bearing down on her, Perry could see it. She sat with an elbow on the arm of the chair and her head against her hand and down, her shoulders stooped. This wasn't his stylish, striking model whose posture was always long and impeccable.

This was defeat.

Vainly he cast about in his mind for something he could say to make it better but he came up as empty as the room. When he held up his glass to her, Della gave her head a little shake as she touched his glass, taking a small sip before setting the glass in her lap.

Crossing her legs she kept her gaze trained on the horizon and lit her own cigarette before he could do it then watched him from the side.

Spilling out of the chair his shirt strangled him at the neck; his expensive silk tie hid seriously strained shirt buttons. In the last few years he had filled out so much that he was working on a third chin and there was a permanent sheen on his dark skin because just walking across the room over-exerted him.

And yet, when she looked at him, she thought he was the most handsome man in the world.

Perfectly graying hair, thick, shiny, his blue eyes even bigger now with more silver in them and set off exquisitely by his still-black lashes. Always embarrassed by his teeth she never-the-less loved both of his smiles; close lipped and the one that flared wide when he was caught in laughter, his upper lip crimped on the left side, exposing the gaps in his teeth showing.

Tall, with a majestic expanse of shoulders, she only felt truly safe in his thick arms, against his strong chest. She even loved that belly; maybe she loved it most of all.

"We need to buy you some new clothes before you go."

"I was afraid you were going to mention that at some point."

Hoping to make it easier, Della had been doing some research.

"There are some wonderful tailors in New York, London…why don't we have some things, some suits and shirts made for you? You've certainly reached that point in your life and career."

Sipping his champagne, Perry raised his eyebrows, pleased with the thought since trying on clothes embarrassed the Hell out of him.

Della loved the sunset from these windows. She remembered her very first one, the night she came to work for him. When he caught her staring from the window at the orange and red patches, like peony blossoms over the Hollywood Hills, he invited her to step out onto the terrace.

A few intimate gestures surprised her at the time, and yet they didn't surprise her at all; when he went back in for her jacket then slipped it over her shoulders, when he lit two cigarettes and handed her one. They had stayed there a long time that evening, both lost in their reveries.

Sitting here at the same window, 30 years later, she realized that her silence that evening came from being overwhelmed at what happened that day. By mid-afternoon she suspected that she was in love with the last man she would ever love.

Della knew that she had been seeing into the future, envisioning their many years together. On a backdrop of pink the color of her champagne, Della watched the great swirls of color that exploded across the sky now that the sun had dipped behind the hills.

_Never let me go  
Love me much too much  
If you let me go  
Life would lose its touch  
What would I be without you?  
There's no place for me without you  
_

Perry thought he had chosen the music for tonight perfectly. Instead he wondered if his subconscious was trying tell him something.

_Never let me go  
I'd be so lost if you went away  
There'd be a thousand hours in a day without you  
I know  
_

_Because of one caress my world was overturned  
at the very start  
All my bridges burned by my flaming heart  
You'd never leave me would you?  
You couldn't hurt me could you?_

Never let me go  
Never let me go

So they didn't ride off into the sunset after all, she thought to herself. When she gave a slight chuckle, rueful though it was, Perry was hopeful. But when he inquired she just shook her head and rolled her eyes.

"Della, are you really this upset with me for becoming a _judge_? It's a great honor. I somehow thought you might be a little … proud of me."

Perry was not a disingenuous man but he could be dense when it came to their relationship and even he would admit he took her for granted. Standing and heading to the terrace, Della took her time forming her words but her effort to compose herself was less than successful. When she wheeled around on him her green eyes were ablaze, her face flushed—although that may have been the hot flash.

"Well, I've known you since 1949, Perry, and I reject the notion that you consider this a '_great honor_,'" Della's baritone was higher than he had heard it in a long while.

_Reject the notion_, uh oh thought Perry.

"Or perhaps I just reject the notion that it's a '_great honor_' you _want_; or that you care about '_great honors_' at all!"

"What are you saying, Della?"

"I don't understand any of this_, _Perry!"

Perry just stared at her—lately it was all he could think of to do around the woman. There was the pervasive feeling that he couldn't get enough of her, knowing as he did that soon their time would be limited. And, too, he just enjoyed watching her—always had—especially on a night like tonight when she was dazzling, lovelier even than she was on their first night together in this office.

On their final day in this office Della was dressed up in a stunning white dress with a matching coat. Had they spent last night together he would have dressed accordingly but she hadn't let that happen much these past few months. As sad as it made him, he understood; like the packing she was preparing herself for many, long, lonely nights ahead.

Perry tried not to let a smile of appreciation creep into his expression—he thought she just might clobber him. But even when it was at his expense, and in this case so deserved, Perry Mason loved those all too rare times when Della Street got good and worked up.

"You will recall, I believe, when you defended Justice Redmond in 1963? And how proud Marian was of him and I told you how proud I would be, too, if someday I worked for Judge Perry Mason?"

"Della, we talked about this there's no place…" Perry ached every time he had to say those words.

_There's no place for you, Della Street. _It reverberated in his ears—he couldn't imagine what it did to hers.

"_The point is_ that at the time you said it was not a job to which you ever aspired. In fact, you couldn't think of anything _worse_."

Perry hung his head a bit.

"You're doing this for a reason that feels like running away," Della's hand swooped, cutting the air. "But even if I didn't know you as well as I do and this was magically your dream, _you know better than anyone_ that I would lead the cheer. If just once…"

"What?"

Della threw her hands in the air then stood in front of him, arms across her chest.

"Have I made it that easy all of these years for you to just…"Della tried to find the words because neither one of them were very good at talking about their relationship, "To not worry at all about…me?"

"I worry all of the time…" her deep voice was beating in his ears.

Della snorted derisively.

"Really?" Della asked with mock surprise.

Perry was afraid to ask but blundered ahead.

"Is it…about the…job?"

Della's eyes went wide and she was biting her lip so hard he was afraid she was going to draw blood.

"We've got you set up now and you're the best…"

"Oh Perry…" she interrupted then walked back to the terrace so she didn't have to see him.

"Is it…" Perry stopped short. "…Us?"

Della laid her head against the glass and let out a sigh.

"Della," Perry got up and went to her immediately, taking a shoulder in each hand. "We're still going to be us…we'll _always be us_."

"And what's that Perry?" Della had a sad smile. "Two single people who by virtue of their work, _of their shared work, _spent their lives together. And now we won't have that work. And you're… retreating."

"What does that mean?" asked Perry, a little angry now himself. 

"You're going to be one of those old judges hiding away in a world of the theoretical, of law books and concepts, hiding yourself away because…you're afraid…" Perry recoiled, a bit horrified at the image. "And I don't even know what you're afraid of because you've changed so much…"

"Della, you're the one who turned down my proposals over the years. You didn't want to be married."

"Didn't want to be married?" Della's eyes popped, her voice rising and soaring out over Los Angeles. "That's _all _I've ever wanted…to be married to _you_."

Perry caught himself staring again.

"And if you had meant _just one_ of those proposals… I would have married you so fast," Della's sadness was almost unbearable. "You always had caveats, though, rules about the way things would have to be and I knew… you were just…warning me off."

"I…"

"I _could_ have been married to you and _still_ worked for you, Perry. What do you think we've been doing all of these years?"

Perry's expression, his realization, just inches from her face was almost too much to bear.

"Oh, yes, right here in this office, Dear…"

"And our homes and…" Perry smirked.

"No, my love," Della pulled his chin with the little dimple she loved, close to her. "_That_ wasn't marriage. This has been our…_marriage_…in this office…"

She pushed him away from her a bit.

"Outside the office…well…" Della's deep voice oozed sarcasm. "_That_ was something _else_…"

Perry pulled her back to his chest, gently.

How right she was—about all of it. How much he must have hurt her over the years. And he was going to be a judge; a man who didn't possess enough insight into human nature to understand the life of the dearest, the most important person to him in the whole world.

Unexpectedly, the walls started to melt around him, to give way, to vaporize.

Paul gone. Paul. His best friend, more like his brother than his own brother and a loss he was still having trouble believing let alone accepting.

Hamilton gone almost a decade and it still seemed like yesterday. Clay recently passed away and the restaurant closing. Little Paul had grown and was off on his own; Gertie off dementedly living in the lap of luxury. Their clients passed off to other lawyers and the remnants of their life and work together packed away to be stored in a cold, dusty, lonely room.

Perry's fingers kneaded her upper arms as his mind raced.

Their life's work together was disappearing and there was nothing to show for it except for the two of them. Della, of course, had seen this all along. He was just feeling it, seeing it now for the first time and it felt like being kicked in the gut over and over.

"I can't get out of this now," Perry was ashen.

"I know," Della's voice was quiet, gentle, her thoughts honest and practical. "I'm not sure you even want to. I think you need to try this."

"Marry me…please will you marry me?"

"You know, I do believe you mean that one Perry Mason," Della dropped her head against his chest. "Oh, not for the right reasons but…"

Through her tears she tipped her chin up and gave him her best pursed-lipped smile.

"But I do believe you mean it. It's just that…this time…this really _isn't_ the right time for us now, is it? You becoming a judge _and_ the pressure of learning to be a husband, of us living together full time without apartments to retreat to—just in case," Della chuckled. "I don't think so, Perry."

Those enormous blue eyes were swimming as he shook his head.

"Della, what do we do?"

Della stood back, hand on her chest, eyes wide with genuine surprise, "Why, Perry, I do believe that that is the first time you have ever asked me that!"

Perry wrapped her in his arms. When did he get so weak, so old that not only could he not take care of her anymore, he couldn't even see that she needed to be taken care of?

"We'll have to be very, very vigilant and tend our little garden."

Perry pressed his head against hers.

"I would look like an idiot, or someone with something to hide," the little man flashed in Perry's mind, "If I changed my mind now. Funny you mentioned Daniel. I've been thinking about him a lot through this whole thing."

"Me, too, and Marian."

"I was thinking about the blackmail and what a wise and talented judge he was, and their relationship. They didn't have long, as husband and wife, but they sure made the most of it."

"Oh Perry, they were 'married' long before they exchanged vows in his chamber." Della's eyes were warm, inviting again.

"He didn't last long after she went."

"No…"

"Neither would I…" Perry stated matter-of-factly not facing her.

Della saw the truth of that statement in the way he stood, held himself.

"They were so happy when we visited them in Washington…"

"Della Street, I love you more than I have ever loved anyone or anything in my life. You are the only woman I _could_ love," Perry griped her shoulders, his hands turned into vices. "You are part of me. Sometimes I think you're all of me. When we're away from one another you know as well as I do that I'm going to miss you more a Hell of a lot more than you will miss me."

"Yes, Dear…" she smiled and ran a finger over his lower lip. "Yes, you will. You won't believe how much either, not until I'm not there."

"Della…"

Della raised her eyebrows.

"You're going to be…working for someone else. You're going to be working for that bastard…"

"Well, let's hope he's not that much of a …well…"she laughed.

Perry buried his head in her neck.

"You'll stay and help me get set up?"

"That's my job, isn't it?" Della's voice was sonorous. "And that's why we closed up here so early."

"Well…"

"Well what?"

"I thought I would surprise you…I was taking you to the islands for a month."

"I know."

"You know?" Perry's voice went up but Della just tilted her head. "I don't want to go now. I just want to…'

"Stay here… go to the beach…maybe go out on the boat…be together… without work?" surmised Della.

"Della, we'll be fine," he managed. "You'll see. We would be us no matter where we were or how far apart life took us."

"We'll see," she sighed. "We'll see my love…"

"No," Perry was resolute. "We will be fine."

Perry took her chin in his hand and brought his lips to hers. Gently he moved his mouth over hers, working her slowly until he could feel her body melt into his. There she was; his little girl. Perry drew his tongue gently over her bottom lip, nibbling it slightly.

Damn him, she thought. Damn him and damn her, too, for being so vulnerable to him. But those lips had always been so soft and they knew her so well.

At the first strains of their song, Perry danced Della into a slow fox trot.

"I was beginning to wonder…" she smiled, sardonically.

"About?"

"Your music choices this evening…"

"Yes, well, it surprised me, too…" Perry's tanned skin took on a slight pinkish hue at the cheek.

"Sometimes it just sneaks up on you Counselor…nothin' you can do about it…" Della's grin was impish, playful.

It didn't last long.

"Gosh I'm going to miss this…" tears rolled down those perfectly sloped cheeks.

"I know, Baby," he whispered, holding her hand close to his lips as they danced. "I'll miss it, too. But we'll get through it. We will, Baby. We have each other."

Della nodded, pressed against his great chest as twilight reached them.

_I can only give you love that lasts forever  
And a promise to be near each time you call,  
And the only heart I own  
For you and you alone,  
That's all, that's all.  
_

Perry tipped her chin up, holding her eyes fast as they danced.

_I can only give you country walks in springtime  
And a hand to hold when leaves begin to fall,  
And a love whose burning light  
Will warm the winter night,  
That's all, that's all.  
_  
_There are those, I am sure, that have told you  
They would give you the world for a toy.  
All I have are these arms to enfold you  
And a love time can never destroy._

If you're wondering what I'm asking in return, dear,  
You'll be glad to know that my demands are small.  
Say it's me that you'll adore  
For now and ever more,  
That's all, that's all.  


_**-DELLA & PERRY, 1977-**_

Della and Perry stood in his tiny office at the Appellate Court unwrapping things. How in the world, wondered Della, was he ever going to be comfortable here? Yes, the position, the building and the way he was being greeted and treated, all reeked of prestige.

Already the office was too small for even one-fourth of his books; the secretary who covered two other justices made Gertie look like a firecracker and his law clerk was a jiggling, nervous fellow clearly terrified of the great attorney.

The idea of leaving him alone here made Della anxious for _him_ and terrified for _them_. What trouble would her boy get into up here all alone?

Lost in her thoughts she missed Perry's quick intake of air.

Bent over his desk he was reading something on a slice of paper wrapped around an ashtray. Della came over and leaned on his back, over his shoulder. It was a small item about a photographer of ill-repute washed ashore not far from their house in Malibu, two 22-calibre slugs found in the back of his head.

"Professional hit," stated Perry, brows furrowed, eyes buried in their sockets.

A smart aleck expression on her face Della's head bobbed up and down, "See? Missing it already…aren't you?"

Perry reached around and grabbed her bringing her protectively into his body.

"Perry!" Della, misunderstanding his fear for ardor, yelled in a whisper. "Good Heavens not here, Dear."

He decided right then. He was hiring someone to watch her, at least for a while, at least until he knew for sure that this was not going to have repercussions. It wasn't such a bad idea anyway.

Perry trusted Della to be tough, to take care of herself, even now and it was one of the things he loved about her. But she hadn't been on her own going to and from work, or anything else, since she was a kid and he did not like the idea of Della getting in a car by herself at night.

And, too, he could keep an eye on her in other ways, in case they were any…social engagements.

"Judge Mason…" Della stroked his neck.

"Don't, Della," Perry was serious.

"Why? It's true I don't know how I'm going to get through the day not seeing you every minute," she chuckled. "But I'm still terribly proud of you."

Della brushed the hair off his forehead. Oh those eyes, she thought.

"Stop…" Perry tilted his chin up, petulant. "Or I won't take you to lunch."

Simultaneously, sadness crept into their expressions. Those days were over.

As tears breached her lashes, spilling onto her cheeks Perry filled his arms with her, a bouquet of every beautiful flower. After a hug her perfume always scented his shirt, staying with him all day. If she was off on an errand, out at an appointment or just at her own desk—rare as that was—he could turn into his shoulder or chest and breathe deeply. How he loved that.

There wasn't enough perfume in California to cover nearly 400 miles they were going to be apart.

This office felt so strange, so foreign to him especially with no place in it for her. Fighting his own tears now, Perry danced her slowly around the edge of the desk, lips pressed to her ear, singing to her alone.

_If you're wondering what I'm asking in return, dear,  
You'll be glad to know that my demands are small.  
Say it's me that you'll adore  
For now and ever more,  
That's all...that's all._

_**-Music-**_

"_**Out of Nowhere"**_—The incredible Teddy Wilson on piano, Lena Horne on vocals. It's on YouTube.

"_**Never Let Me Go"**_—This song is not nearly as evocative when anyone but the great Nancy Wilson sings it. It's on iTunes.

"_**That's All"**_—For me, this is the ultimate song of Perry & Della's love story. Mel Tormé's version is as smooth as silk and so is Sinatra's. But I think I have to go with Nat King Cole.


	8. Chapter 8

_**Autumn**_

_**1982**_

_**LA-SF-Lake Tahoe**_

Della had been right, of course.

Their work had been inextricably part of who they were, separately and as a couple.

They tried gamely for the first few years, taking turns every weekend on the Los Angeles-San Francisco shuttle. Della Street, who refused to fly on Fridays, made an enormous concession by ignoring her long-held superstition… but _only_ to get to Perry Mason.

Sometimes the most trivial moments and seemingly insignificant gestures best conveyed how greatly you were loved. The "black cat-ism," as he called it, that Della had about Fridays and air travel in general, dictated their travel itineraries for decades. Willingly casting aside such a true terror to spend a few hours more with Perry was humbling—particularly since his health and the demands on a Federal court judge meant Della traveled to him much more than he could travel to her.

Vacations took on an importance they never had before and with a few days they went to Malibu or one of their old haunts—Carmel, Tahoe, or Laguna Beach. When they had a week or more they traveled to tropical islands or old European cities. Latitude and longitude were of little consequence; once reunited they snapped in place like a child's blocks.

Parting was another matter altogether.

They left each other on Monday mornings specifically so work filled the prodigious void left behind. As Sunday, traditionally their day, dwindled sadness skulked flat against the walls, stalking their shadows, threading the gray hands that reached out. Cognac by the fire, laying out the next day's suits, reading before sleep all gave the impression of normalcy. After the lights were out, however, they clung to one another like small children.

Della found that she was destroyed for at least a day after they parted. She wished she could be more like Perry who she knew missed her desperately, but being a man handled it much better. Or so she thought.

One Monday Della came to the office with him, planning to take a cab to the airport so they could steal a few more hours. When he left the room Ida, who had watched judges come and go for decades, confessed that he was so objectionable until Wednesday afternoon that she and the other secretaries (and two of the more timid justices) had "started a support group."

The words vodka and martini were only implied.

Although they made their typical wrenching good-bye as he left for his meeting, Della could not leave after hearing Ida's story and was still sitting at his desk working when he returned. Filling the room with his grin, Perry faltered momentarily, thinking about the afternoon's appointments.

Honest right down to her gray roots, Ida looked her boss dead in the eye …and lied.

"Your Honor, your schedule is clear," she said hurrying away—to reschedule all of his appointments.

Perry took Della for a quick lunch and then home to bed.

If, as their dotage encroached, they made love a bit less, it was perhaps to be expected. But their kisses grew more passionate; the holding and cuddling amaranthine, not even being in public could, or needed to, stop it anymore.

In fact, Perry's appointment brought her one truly extraordinary surprise in this regard; a result she never considered and in which she delighted.

U.S. Federal Court of Appeals Justice Mason had more social duties than ever and Miss Street, as always, was his date, charming everyone in the room except the many women who fluttered around him with fervent hopes and heaving bosoms. Behind their heavily jeweled, manicured pincers they twittered and gossiped about Della Street.

For the first time in 30 years, though, Della was Perry Mason's girlfriend and _only_ his girlfriend! This was an exciting, heady new experience. No more "was she or wasn't she." Everyone knew that she was and never would Della have believed how _different_, how _wonderful_, it could feel.

Perry noticed a difference in her but it took him a while to isolate what it was.

Della was always a dazzling beauty who knew exactly what clothes flattered her abundant natural gifts and who didn't need to spend a fortune to look great. There remained a reserve, though, in part because she never forgot she was also his secretary.

Now she let loose taking a few rakish chances with her clothes—sparkling evening gowns, cleavage that dropped lower and slits that went higher. For the first time she didn't seem self-conscious about wearing the jewelry he had given her over the years, which she had worn carefully, and one piece-at-a-time. Brightening her make-up, softening her hair which she grew out a bit, she seemed even younger than she had.

The changes were not mere cosmetics.

Bubbling effusively when they were out, she flirted with him openly, sweetly showing her affection and encouraging him to do likewise. Perry hadn't needed much encouragement. Upstate or down, they met friends and acquaintances to whom the couple's new frankness was a source of joy.

Still the emergence of this twinkling, scintillating Della, while very welcome, remained a mystery. The answer came from the most unlikely of sources. At a Police Benevolent Association benefit in L.A. one evening, a couple of their old law enforcement friends teased Perry, marveling at the change in Della. Happily he agreed even if, as he admitted, it still had him a bit puzzled.

"Well," smiled Andy who had always admired Della, "Must be nice, you know…"

He had been following Della with his eyes rather dreamily and trailed off when he saw Perry staring at him.

Blushing, he chuckled, "Finally she's just a girl."

Suddenly Perry did know and was both dismayed and ashamed that it did not occur to him before now.

Christmas was just a month away and he decided that after all of these years even if she wouldn't accept a diamond there had to be something more than a pinky ring. A few weekends later they were walking through a certain recherché jeweler on Rodeo Drive, looking at rings with Paul who _thought_ he was _that_ serious about a young lady.

Della fretted but Perry, knowing men, told her not to worry. Sure enough after two trays of engagement rings Paul got so nervous he bolted from the store. Outside his Godfather patted his back as Paul bent over trying to get his breath.

"I guess," Paul gulped air, "When I'm really in love the thought of marriage won't make me want to throw up, huh?"

"Oh, no, son," Perry smirked, "It will always make you want to throw up."

A look passed between the two men, and while neither of them said anything, it stole the smile from Perry's face as they returned to the store.

When he came up behind Della, a salesclerk was pushing trays of diamonds and rubies toward her but she ignored them in favor of the amethysts. Semi-prescious they never-the less captivated her in a way precious stones did not simply because, as she explained, they were the "prettiest color" and they just happened to be Little Paul's birthstone.

Perry leaned a forearm on the counter smiling indulgently at her, as the clerk told his romantic girl that according to legend amethysts strengthened the bond between lovers. Beaming at Perry, she pursed her lips and moved onto another display case.

Surreptitiously Perry pointed to a flawless, cushion-cut 40-karat Deep Siberian amethyst displayed alone on a velvet pillow. Prized for its saturated color, the requisite flashes of blue and red, it was the rarest of amethysts and this one was exquisite. Studying the emerald rings he pointed to a simple setting in gold with 3 karats of diamonds split on either side. Then he passed the girl his credit card mouthing the word, "Christmas."

Although it was only two weeks away she nodded and whispered that she would go figure out the price but Perry just shook his head and smiled.

It didn't matter.

What did matter were the tears Christmas Eve, that she hadn't once removed the damn thing from where he put it on her ring finger that night and the way he would catch her all alone, staring at it hand up with tears in her eyes. It was the happiest any gift had ever made him to give…or get!

Vacations, weekends and gifts were not enough, though. Years wore on and wore them down. Their careers became more encompassing, especially Della's, and since she was forced to do the bulk of the traveling their weekends together waned. In their hearts they were no less close, speaking on the phone every single day trying to keep one another buoyed between their sporadic visits. But those 400 miles stretched out, the space increasingly harder to close as they acquired more age but less time and energy.

By the five-year anniversary of Perry Mason's ascent to the bench, they were 65 and 60 respectively. Perry had grown cantankerous and large, Della cautious and drab. As she predicted, he retreated into a world of legal theory, wrangling with the great questions of the day delivered via legal appeals.

When colleagues managed to drag him into their social orbit he went grudgingly, and it always made news. Della told herself she took the San Francisco papers to keep up with his city, the cases, the crimes, etc. Somehow she always meandered over to the society pages, though, which was an exercise in self-torture.

First Della noticed a slightly hard but still stunning red head who always seemed to be in the same group as Perry. Evelyn Porter, described as a widow who recently inherited the famed Porter Estate, was a very familiar face without a familiar name and it drove Della to distraction. Then the Chronicle published a photo of her staring adoringly up at Perry and Della recognized that look—it was Evelyn _Bagby_, the restless red-head whose bright blue eyes had turned _his _head for a time.

Perry _did _mention "running into" Evelyn who was followed by a lovely, young woman soon appearing in every photo… in _Della's _place… a place she had occupied since 1949. Della may not have been able to own much over the decades but she owned that, or rather she did. Now that place was being held by a _girl_—a quite beautiful and talented-in-her-own-right _girl_, Della recognized as the political reporter for San Francisco's top-rated news station, KRON-TV. As hot tears burned the back of Della's throat she swore to stop having the San Francisco papers delivered.

Della's life on the other hand, was gentle, quiet.

Work kept her busy six days a week, often into the night. Once used to Arthur Gordon she quite liked him and employing her humor and impeccable efficiency she handled him easily. They even became quite friendly at a time when they were both in need of a friend.

Nights were long, Sundays she worked her garden and had brunch or dinner with Paul, Jr. who watched his "mom" like a hawk. There had always been many friends, even when her life was all Perry, all of the time. Those friends became more important now even if they were married with families and grown children who were now working on grandchildren.

Perry's society column presence prompted Della to accept the occasional dinner invitation set up by friends who wanted to invite a couple and hesitated to invite a single woman. All that her dating accomplished was confirm what she had known since May 2, 1949. It was Perry Mason or no one.

So Della stopped dating and while she never did get used to attending social events alone she did it …when asked.

Perry knew she was lonely and that what was happening to her was patently unfair, knew that she read the papers but would never, even on penalty of death, mention what she saw. That he was heartsick at their separation did not assuage his guilt about leaving her alone and being too afraid to be alone himself.

Della said they would need to work hard tending their little garden and she had—terribly hard. As ever, Perry was conflicted, though. There was so _much_ work and as important as he had always known her contributions to be, he had not realized how intrinsic she was to his work _process_. Now his rhythm was off and everything took _longer_.

Social engagements mounted. He resented their necessity and hated the idea of going alone so he didn't even as he knew that that was not helping _them_. Worst of all was a terrible truth: the dull ache of missing her for months was somehow more tolerable than the sharp, gut-wrenching pain of being torn from her every five days.

Without her his world was dark and didn't make sense. Perry bore her pain, too, though and as months passed, then years metaphorically he shrunk to half the man he was; literally he grew to twice the size.

_**-DSPM-**_

As much as Della loved attending legal conferences with Perry that is exactly how much she hated the technology conferences she attended with Arthur. Even this weekend event was a chore despite it being the industry's most significant gathering, only occurring once every three years. The computer world had fascinating aspects but these conferences were as dull as many of the people involved. Code writing was a miraculous invention. It did not, however, make for interesting dinner conversation.

Thankfully Arthur was not like other men they met in this business. Sure he was mercurial and usually irascible but, at least where she was concerned, he could be charming and he was the best at what he did. Della knew that she couldn't have worked for any other man in in the room.

Street smart and savvy Arthur Gordon had made and lost several fortunes before his prescient and unerring crystal ball led him into computer technology back in 1969. Despite having no affinity himself for the technology he exploited, Arthur never-the-less grew Gordon Industries into a billion-dollar company almost overnight. Part of this was recognizing talent and pursuing it at all cost.

Such was the case with Della Street.

In July 1977, when it was announced that Mason was going to the Federal Court of Appeals in San Francisco, Gordon called the office and asked to meet with Mason and Miss Street. Seldom, never really, was a secretary almost as famous as her boss and she was widely held to be part of the reason Mason was such a success—Hell, mason even said it himself every chance he got.

When he called, Della politely informed him that Mr. Mason was not accepting new clients. Gordon informed her that he didn't give a damn about _Mr_. Mason.

Walking into the office, Perry noticed the trim, silver-haired, ruggedly handsome Gordon wore no smile, and offered not even a perfunctory greeting. Instead, he launched right into the purpose of the meeting, concentrating on Della with laser focus.

"Are you going to San Francisco with Mason?" he asked, chin level, eyes piercing. "I hear that you're not. I hear that you're looking for a position."

Taken aback by his bluntness, and the pain that still accompanied the question, Della blurted out the truth. There was no place for her in Perry's new office. The Federal secretarial jobs were currently filled and they were not appropriate for her skills anyway.

"Not good enough for you, of course," Perry noticed something resembling a smile on Gordon's face. "I'd like you to come and be my personal secretary."

Angry, covetous and jealous, Perry stepped in.

"At this stage, Miss Street hasn't even begun to think about a new position," Perry glanced at Della who was wondering to herself if he really believed what he just said. "_Our_ office will be open for another…"

Impatiently, Gordon cut him off.

"Look Mason, you're sharp enough to see I'm giving _you_ some consideration here and I don't usually bother with etiquette. One hears things, however and my understanding is that you two are …well… It's her decision," Gordon stared into Della. "You're not chattel. It just seemed more appropriate to speak with both of you. I should have just taken you to lunch…alone."

The idea of Della working for anyone else had upset him, far more than he could ever have imagined. Perry watched Gordon, annoyed, uncross and cross his legs and as stunned as he was, he knew that the man was right.

"What are your terms?" Perry asked, looking at Della.

By the time they saw Arthur Gordon to the door, it was clear that Gordon Industries was the place for Della. Arthur's aptitude, demeanor and, most of all, his forthright manner, appealed to her at the first. Perry wasn't so sure, Della knew that. But she also knew that it was his jealousy, not his opinion of Arthur Gordon and his company that was driving his judgment.

Della Street understood that she would always know exactly where she stood with Arthur Gordon and that counted for something —in fact, it counted for a lot.

_**-DSPM-**_

Work and other "issues" delayed Arthur and Della who got to Lake Tahoe so late in the day they missed the "meet and greet" cocktail party. Della didn't mind. Lonely, sad, and feeling her age—sixty, a word she absolutely hated, it even _sounded_ like you had fallen down the stairs—the perpetually sunny Miss Street who loved a cocktail party had not been in the mood to socialize with anyone lately.

Arthur was never in the mood. Any time there was a convention Gordon needed Della, amazingly adept at personal skills he did not possess and had no intention of acquiring at this stage in his life. Whether it was making innocuous chit chat or speaking knowledgably and in-depth about the company—and she knew instinctively which was required—Della smoothed the way for the often rough-hewn Arthur.

And he knew it, which is why after four years he had promoted her to his executive assistant and told her to hire them _both_ personal secretaries. Della never allowed Perry to do that, as often as he tried. They had enough law clerks (had to beat those eager kids away with a stick) to lift much of the burden from her slim shoulders.

This was a different world, though, and she had so much work in her new positions that she put the capable, friendly young woman through her paces even if it could not solve all of her problems at Gordon Industries; like the morning's other impediment.

Della Street's most difficult stumbling block was Paula Gordon, Arthur's wife. Attractive and well bred, she maintained certain expectations and could not understand why her husband always seemed to "need" Della, as Arthur put it. When she discovered that morning Della was accompanying him to Lake Tahoe's most exclusive resort for the weekend, she blew into her office like a F-4 tornado, eyes and tongue as fiery as her hair.

With great restraint that he would not have too many more years, Arthur tried to explain to his younger bride that this was not a vacation. It was a conference and he hated conferences, which were a giant pain-in-his-ass and precisely why he had an executive assistant. But Paula, 25 years younger than her imagined rival, lost all reason when it came to Della Street, her rancor and mistrust knowing no limits.

Della finally offered that perhaps she should just sit this one out but Arthur would have none of it and his objection shook the walls with such force that both women stood mute.

For Della it had been decades since she had dealt with jealous wives and she had not missed it at all, she confessed one angry night to Paul, Jr. who stared into his napkin, smiling. True she had to admit she was flattered that someone in her 30s would be jealous of her but the situation was destined to get worse as the newness of her marriage wore off and Mrs. Gordon careened toward 40.

Tough year for a woman that… 40. Della remembered it well. As it turned out, it was just a warm-up act for 60, especially if you had little to show for your life and were feeling very alone. By nature, Della was a positive person but these days staying that way was her greatest challenge.

_**-DSPM-**_

Della hung her clothes and surveyed the vast, expensive suite, which she neither wanted nor needed. Noticing a connecting door to Arthur's suite she thought, for the briefest moment, that after all the years of friendship they shared, Arthur might have something else rooting around in that male brain of his.

As if reading her mind, he knocked on the door right in front of her, sending her almost to the ceiling.

"Yes?" she called out, voice thin and unsure.

"_This_ was not my idea, Miss Street and if you ever tell my wife…"

Della leaned a hand against the door in hysterics.

"Oh…yuh…" she rolled her eyes sarcastically.

"You just make sure," he said with mock gravity, "That you stay on _your_ side of the door, Lady."

"Well," Della drew it out a little flirtatiously, "It will be a _supreme_ effort but I will try."

"And if you bring any …company back to your room you better keep it down!"

Had that been Perry, Della would have refashioned his gibe into a slightly blue double entendre. In her youth had a man for whom she worked said something like that she would have blushed. That was one of the few advantages of being older; so much less was blush-worthy and you no longer needed to feign innocence.

"I make no promises!" Della shouted back through the door; a remark that sounded exactly like something Perry would have said, she realized.

Their warm laughter faded as both moved away from the door.

Della's eyes started to smart. How she missed the man. She traveled extensively with Arthur but being _here_, Lake Tahoe one of their places, her suite adjoining another man's… another boss'… another _man's _it all felt so alienating.

With some time to relax Della searched the clock radio next to the bed for something that didn't set her teeth on edge—and she had very edgy teeth most of the time now—finally settling on a station playing a mix of older music from the Big Band era through sixties jazz.

A bath was either going to make her hopelessly sleepy or relaxed enough to work the room tonight and she was hoping for the latter.

A chill passed over her shoulders. When she was a kid they would have called it the heebie-jeebies. Lately she felt as if she was being followed, as if someone always just around the corner, watching. Working for Perry they were often followed whether by Tragg and his men trying to get leads they could not get themselves, or someone far more nefarious.

Della was surprised at how quickly it became second nature, accepting that reality and certainly some of that had to do with Perry constantly at her side. Now the feeling had returned after a long absence and she did not have Perry with her all of the time as protection.

When she spoke with Paul about it, he understood immediately. Divorce stakes were high, he explained and couples routinely hired their own detectives to follow a spouse. It became a joke among the guys who drank together, comparing notes and laughing at their employers' mix of self-sanctity, mistrust and greed.

Trying to make a go of his dad's business he admitted he took that work on a regular basis. His "mom" didn't approve exactly, but she remembered all of the disconsolate marriages that passed through their office door and nodded consent to her Godson. Of course, anything he did was fine with her.

Since Perry's disappearance Paul was omnipresent. Sometimes when she looked at the exceedingly handsome young man he now was-so much like his dad whom she missed still—Della could squint him down and he was eight years old again. There he stood in the middle of her bedroom with one tiny bare foot on the other and a goofy, lovesick grin, his blonde curls sticking out from his red cowboy hat, and six shooters pulling down the bottoms of his favorite cowboy pajamas. ("But they're _gold, _Della!"_)_

Tears pinched her eyes again but these were happy tears and soon she was back to the business at hand. Della understood that Paula Gordon, resentful and invidious, would not hesitate to put a tail on her and for a minute she even considered moving to a room across the hall. Instead she ran the damn bath, after first making a sweep of the entire room including under the bed.

Sitting on the edge of the tub as it filled, her mood grew melancholy. Crawling under hotel beds to check for evidence of your boss' wife's detective…this is what came of being an unmarried, middle-aged woman. No sooner had she slipped below the bubbles than the tears came in earnest. Seldom did Della sob with noise and shaking body parts but boy could she let fly the tears. Perry called it her "steady spring shower."

_Lake Tahoe_.

When Arthur asked if she had been there before, she could only smile and nod. How many times had she and Perry visited since that first time in the autumn of 1949? They were firmly in love by then and entirely unable to figure out what to do about it. So they worked. They worked hard and they worked long, not just because he was the busiest attorney in the state it seemed to her then, but because they couldn't bear to be apart and working together meant _being_ together.

From their first visit she had loved everything about Lake Tahoe. That unlikely Mediterranean blue-green of the water, so clear you could count the pebbles beneath your usually freezing feet. In winter the lake reflected light from sky and snow intensifying until it was _his_ color, his indigo eyes. Sitting on the rocks, sun shining on him, only his lush black lashes separated where Perry's eyes left off and the water began.

In summer the craggy mountains surrounding them were still sprinkled with snow. A pervasive scent of pine and the sound of needles drawing across one another in the breeze made Della as sleepy as a child when they snuggled in the hammock.

Wild flowers bloomed constantly, fiery orange Paintbrushes; pale blue Sierra rein orchids, which Perry explained were named because their two petal clusters recalled horse's reins; lacy Bog Mallows in pink and majestic Andersen Thistles in a startling purple; Columbine that Perry said were part of the buttercup family, so different from the Columbine her mother grew back home; and stalwart lilies, the orange Alpines that followed them everywhere and delicate white Mariposas with yellow and maroon-cupped bottoms.

Perry would take her by the hand, leading her deep into the forests, down into the basin and up into the higher levels pointing out and naming for her every tree and flower. They seldom saw anything green or flowering with which he was unfamiliar.

Perry's favorite, the Snow Plant, appeared as the snow began to melt on the forest floor. Its leaves and thick, fleshy stems grew as bright a red as its bell-shaped flowers. Snow Plants were so efficient—warming the rich brown earth, making the landscape friendly and colorful when it was otherwise barren—and yet they never seemed to know just how gorgeous they were.

Perry loved animals as much as flowers and over the years their walks had yielded sightings of several tangles of bear cubs rolling over one another at play and Mule deer that looked like they could pull Santa's sleigh; chickarees and orange-throated martens in the trees; beavers busy in the water; coyotes staring at them proudly, keeping their distance; porcupines, marmots and the occasional mountain lion cub.

Perry chattered with all of them—except the lion cubs. Any time they saw those he yanked her hand and got them away from wherever they were…_fast_.

These walks made Della realize how hard it must have been for Perry to be cooped up in their office or court as much as he was.

In summer Perry and Della spread their towels on the smooth, round, pale rocks or compact, sand beach to doze. Invariably, as the sun crossed the lake into late afternoon Perry would turn on his side and prop himself up on an elbow to light a cigarette. Inside of his wrist pointed up, the cigarette hung, ignored, as he ran his other palm across her tummy signaling it was time. With cheeky grins they packed silently, _quickly_, and raced back to their bed.

They stayed in many cabins over the years, on several different parts of the lake. Not a woman of extravagant tastes, the cabin Della loved best happened to be a towering log and wood lodge they had all to themselves; a rustic castle built right into the rocks at the water's edge.

The furnishings were exquisite while still being appropriate for the setting. At one end the wall, upstairs and down, was made of large gray stones held together with veins of cream-colored cement. Fireplaces were built into it for the ground-floor living room and the master bedroom upstairs.

That was the "castle's" coziest room, the master, with woolen blankets that always smelled of fresh air, a pair of overstuffed leather chairs for reading with a shared ottoman, Persian carpets covering a wide-planked dark wood floor and a bay window that ran the length of the wall and opened its arms to the moon at night, beckoning.

Della loved crawling into the crisp, white sheets and lying curled between the dense softness of the bed's luxurious pillows and the same supple cushion of Perry's body.

_**-DSPM-**_

Stretched out in the tub, Della pushed the water around her full breasts floating beneath dark, pink nipples. Immodestly she admired what good shape they were still in, attributing it to never having had a baby. She mined these paltry moments of single-hood victory from her life, a hapless prospector making the most of what was offered.

Ella Fitzgerald decided to join the party from the other room, offering a song Della had found eerily, painfully, appropriate these last few years.

_What am I here for?_

_Living in mis'r,_

_Now that you've gone from my heart _

_That was my fear for_

_You were my future_

_There was no reason to part._

_Still I hope you change your mind_

_And that someday you will find_

_You are meant to be my own_

_I'll be lost if I'm alone_

_I know that you remember_

_All that you told me_

_Times when you'd hold me so tight_

_How could you grieve me?_

_How could you leave me?_

_Knowing your love is my light_

_In your ear that should be_

_Thoughts of your return to me_

_I will be happy_

_Patiently waiting_

_Knowing then, that's why I'm here._

Remembering all of the times they danced to that song, the devilish eye she pointed his way on certain phrases, the sheepish kisses her fingers received in return. He knew…that son-of-a…Della's lips curved as she laid her head back sinking further into the water. Closing her eyes she could feel him against her as they moved around the floor in perfect sync.

In her mind Perry was 35, 40, 42, 47 his naked body, bronzed by the sun, emerging from the lake, long arms grabbing her, pushing her gently onto the towel, covering her. As male as he was, he was almost feminine in his sensuality with his endless touching and stroking, the way he seemingly knew the path to every female nerve ending and the way lay back to receive her hands and mouth.

Even lost in thoughts of him, Della's hands were no match for his tender, clever touch.

No good was going to come of this and it was getting late. Rising quickly from the tub she yanked a plush towel from the rod behind her and dried off, averting her eyes so she wouldn't meet them in the mirror.

_**-DSPM-**_

After re-doing her make-up and hair, Della unzipped her hanging bag. Normally she brought only suits, slightly more elegant than her everyday suits but suits. Lately she had tired of her corporate camouflage, though, and for this trip she packed an elegant, light wool dress in an almost-black navy, knee-length, with satin lapels that crossed and a modest slit up the back, as well as dark stockings, and a slim, midnight blue satin clutch that matched her pumps.

Arthur did not "pick her up" at her door. Niceties were not exchanged on the way to the elevator. She did not fix his tie. He did not tell her how lovely she looked—although Della detected a quite definite double take when he first saw her locking her door. Colleagues-only, they discussed who to speak with and who to avoid.

Once in the magnificent gold and white ballroom where the buzz reverberated as if inside a giant bee hive, they sliced briskly through the crowd to get to the front and their table. As Vice Presidents tried to engage Arthur—everyone wanted him as a client—Della graciously moved him along leaving a path of silence in their wake.

There was a speech program during dinner and if the speakers addressed the computer industry Arthur would behave well. If they were techs, enamored of their own voices and lost in that indecipherable world of codes, Della would wish for the adult version of a coloring book and crayons, which she used to pull from her bag for an antsy Little Paul.

During "the boring parts," Della jabbed Arthur in the ribs as the droning, nasal voices threatened their sanity, mugging, rolling her eyes and making him fight laughter. Awaiting the key note address, to be given by the IBM Vice President who spearheaded the personal computer, a last minute change was announced.

Groans from the disappointed audience ran in a wave around the room. Bill Gates, who helped IBM build that first personal computer two years before and who had recently become President of his own company, Microsoft, came to the podium to calm the inmates, promising no one would be disappointed. Immediately the audience settled down.

Arthur regarded Della from the corner of his eye as Gates began his introduction.

"Our loss is really our gain. We are _extremely fortunate _tonight," he said in his sure way, "To have with us a legend…an attorney who stared at us from the front page for decades…"

Della sat up straight and looked at Arthur who just smirked at her.

"And who is now on special assignment for the Federal Court of Appeals in Pennsylvania," Della mouthed the words in unison with Gates, "Researching and investigating the ramifications and possibilities of patents and computer code in an appeals case there."

Despite her ladylike pose, hands together in her lap, legs crossed, Della Street gaped, mouth slack as Perry Mason walked across the stage, shook the boy wonder's hand, then took hold of either side of the podium. It had been over four months since they had seen on another, the longest they had been apart in 33 years by over 400%. Della had never calculated anything so quickly.

Perry wore one of the suits the tailor cut for him six months ago in the fabric she chose with a shirt she picked underneath and the silk tie she gave him in a variety of blue stripes that miraculously all matched those eyes.

Seeing him as if for the first time, Della had forgotten; forgotten how imposing a figure he cut, how tall he stood, how massive his shoulders were, how darkly handsome he could be. She breathed heavily.

And he had… a beard! It was handsome; incredibly handsome, more than she could ever have imagined had she ever imagined Perry with a beard. He had promised a surprise when they saw one another again but impishly refused to say what it was.

Standing there, silent, his eyes raced across the audience, eager, seeking, until he snagged himself on a pair of sparkling hazel eyes. Della let loose with her widest, most charming smile and, laughing, Perry winked at her.

"Better?" asked her boss.

Nodding, Della swiveled toward Arthur.

"I couldn't take much more of you moping around," he whispered in a mock, grouchy voice. "It was depressing me."

Launching into his speech, Perry gave her a show. Grave sincerity one minute, wicked wit the next, he imparted volumes of salient information that had audience members scribbling notes on everything but the tablecloth.

Afterwards the question and answer period threatened to go all night until Arthur, sensing Della was getting impatient, stood and offered that _his_ executive assistant, Miss Della Street, would make copies of Mr. Mason's speech available the next morning. Looking down at a flushed Della Gordon amended his timetable.

"Well, tomorrow afternoon," he said winking at Della.

The ovation was loud and long but Perry didn't wait for the end.

Arthur turned to her, "I never got it… guy's brilliant…"

"Yes," Della stated quietly, proudly and with a radiant smile. "His mind is stunning and his powers of reason…"

She trailed off unable to finish, there just weren't words.

"I hadn't thought of most of that and that's what I do—might have to retain him."

"Well, he's a Federal judge he can't…"

"One of these days, when he steps down…comes home," Arthur smiled at her, warmly.

Della had to admit that at that moment, she had a soft spot for the other difficult, argumentative, disagreeable, skilled, exceptional man in the room.

Shaking hands with well-wishers as quickly as he could without seeming rude, he came bounding over like a St. Bernard puppy. Taking her in his arms, propriety be damned, he kissed her, tipping her backwards in a near-dip, earning applause from those nearby.

"To the victor go the spoils," called out one envious gentleman. "And what spoils!"

"Hey Gordon, I guess your assistant liked your idea for a replacement, too," yelled another man, slapping Gordon on the back.

He hated that but when he looked up Della was looking at him with such affection he just laughed and patted her shoulder.

"You owe me, Mason," Arthur leaned into Perry so she couldn't hear. "You've got one of the rare great ones."

Perry Mason noticed, as Arthur Gordon looked up at him through graying eyebrows, that he glowered almost as well as Perry did. Gordon was a worthy opponent who, he suspected, cared a bit more about Miss Street than he was willing to admit. Instead of being jealous, Perry was surprised to find he felt comforted by it—that even when he wasn't around she had someone who would watch over her.

Extending his hand, he gave Arthur a genuine smile.

"I need her back by next Friday," Arthur looked at Della.

"But…"

"Don't argue with me," Arthur feigned anger. "We've got the Chinese coming. They love you. Friday. Be there damn it."

Putting a hand on his forearm, Della leaned in to Arthur and in her deep voice said, "Thank you, Arthur. Thank you for being one of the best friends I've ever had…"

Arthur made a strange harrumph worthy of Perry and walked off with a couple of the colleagues she knew he could stand. Several people were standing close by, looking as if they wanted to speak with the Judge but seeing two people whose eyes were completely glued to one another they soon scattered.

Grabbing her upper arm in his wide paw, Perry turned Della toward him and she instantly reached out to stroke his beard.

"I have quite a suite…" Della stuck her chin up, pursing her lips so sweetly Perry felt his eyes dampen.

"I know," Perry's lips were pursed right back at her, as he enjoyed her wide eyes.

"You know?"

"You had a bath…"

For a moment Della wondered if she had checked _everywhere_.

"Perry!"

"Took a look around when I put my things in there just before the speech."

"Your things?" she slapped him on the shoulder, "But how?"

"Della, a well-known computer conference? In California? I'm asked at the last minute to fill in for the keynote?"

"But _I_ didn't know…"

"That's what made it so special!"

"Are you sure you and Arthur aren't colluding?"

"Della," Perry patted her arm, "I don't think you're ever going to have to worry about that. Friends we will never be."

"We're friends, long lost friends but friends never-the-less," Della wrapped her arms around his waist, forgetting where they were.

Not caring where they were, Perry pulled her into his broad, warm body, "Not long lost…temporarily misplaced."

Della's smile faded.

"I'm lonely for you…"

Perry buried her lips in her hair, "Me, too."

"I miss you so…"

"I miss you, too, Della. More than you could ever know."

"Then where the Hell have you been?"

Perry put a hand under her elbow and guided her through ballroom, empty except for the bussers in white jackets and black pants who were diligently clearing the tables.

"Let's go upstairs and discuss that…"

They went upstairs but they didn't discuss much of anything—they managed the "Do Not Disturb" sign and almost made it to the bedroom before clothes started flying. But there weren't really many words.

_**-DSPM-**_

Three in the morning had come and gone and Della, panting, finally sprawled across that enormous chest to rest. Lurid bathtub fantasies still fresh in her mind, she had attacked the poor man bringing him to the brink of pleasure so many times that for the first time ever he had to beg her, laughing, to stop.

"Dear?"

"Yes?" Perry said stroking her soft back and down her back side while he still tried to catch his breath.

"I do like that beard. I also very much liked your face…"

"I never did…"

"I know but I loved it and I love this, too."

Della was drifting off to sleep across him and Perry reached over to click off the light. Propped up on his pillows he held her body on his, falling asleep, too.

Suddenly Della jerked up, pushing herself up on his belly.

"Uh…" he groaned.

Della reached over and clicked the light back on.

"Do you have that damn speech with you or was that all just extemporaneous? Do you at least have the notes for it because…"

Perry just shook his head, watching her, still completely fascinated because she was the most fascinating creature who ever existed. Mock scowling at her now, he reached over for the light again, his eyes never letting go of hers.

"Well…" she turned a hand in the air. "It's my job, isn't it?"

As the light went off Perry grabbed her, growling, and flipped her on her side. Burying his head in her neck he nipped the soft skin until she was laughing uncontrollably. When he finally stopped playing she snuggled into the crook of his arm, and fell asleep stroking his beard.

_**-DSPM-**_

Well it was no bay window but when she woke, Della noticed her suite had a perfectly spectacular view of Lake Tahoe shimmering under the first sun of morning. As a matter of fact, she thought, everything was perfect about this suite—now.

Perry, with a hand over her breasts, the other hand on her opposite hip, a leg pressed between her legs and his chin planted firmly in her curls, was a vine, robust and thick, wound around her body.

Della giggled softly and backed deeper into him.

"Go back to sleep," he whispered.

Della reached a hand back to stroke his beard.

"Can't," Della's deep giggle rolled out of her again, "Christmas morning."

Perry chuckled softly, encouraging Della to back even further into him.

"Hey!"

"Yeah?" Della said out of the side of her mouth.

"Keep that up and I won't be able to sleep either!"

"Mmmm," she hummed, "Think how much more fun it could be to be awake."

But Perry's hands and lips had already begun their knowing exploration running along the downy skin he knew so well.

"I've missed you, Miss Street. I've missed you…I've missed you…I've missed you," the last phrase was lost in her neck, just behind her ear.

"Never know it."

"I beg to differ," Perry said recalling last evening's exploits.

"Not what I meant. That has always been the easiest part for us," Della's tone was deadly serious though her breathing was labored.

Perry, who was working on a particular plan of attack then changed course, turning her to face him. Slipping an arm under her head, he held her cheek with the other hand, running his thumb back and forth along her lower lip. Lifting her thigh over his hip, she gasped as he pulled her close.

"My turn young lady…"

_**-DSPM-**_

Della was cold and that meant only one thing, Perry had left their bed. Sleepily she rolled over to read 10:28 on the clock and rolled back grinning. Although she couldn't say how much actual sleep she had gotten, she hadn't been in bed this late, even on a Saturday, in more than four months.

In the other room there were stirrings, a door being opened as quietly as possible, the sound of a room service cart-table being rolled in, its wheels needing some oil, the cutlery bouncing as the rug troubled the cart, ice cubes knocking the side of the water glass. These were the comforting sounds of home away from home—for better or worse.

Delicious smells, softly scrambled eggs, buttery croissants and probably other breads, definitely bacon and coffee for which she longed, had found their way into the suite's bedroom and yet Della remained sleepy as a kitten.

There was a strange banging that sounded like it was coming from the hallway and then… then it all happened…so fast.

Della heard a woman's sharp, pointy voice and a young man whisper loudly, "Hey, lady! You can't bust in here!"

As Della turned, sitting up with nothing but a bit of sheet covering her, she was confronted by pure vitriol.

"Aha!" screamed Paula Gordon.

Della just looked at her, "Paula what in the world…."

"Don't you speak so familiarly to me you…you…_secretary_! This is going to cost both of you!"

For a moment Della thought she actually meant Perry but the cobwebs finally cleared and she knew that Paula meant Arthur. Della leaned an elbow on her knee, shaking her head.

"Paula, you've made a mistake. Young man," Della called around Paula to the young man in the doorway staring at the floor.

"Ma'am I'm so sorry."

"Don't worry, Dear," Della was wondering why the row hadn't brought out Perry when she heard the shower go off. "Please add a 30% tip on top of the bill and run along now."

"I was supposed to be quiet…"

Paula had been trying not to look at Della Street who, even at the age of 60, was in amazing condition for being roused from bed in so churlish a manner. Outside of the office, outside of those hideous suits she wore, there were long legs for which Paula would have died, a freckled and relatively smooth face and chest and arms that could have belonged to a woman 20 years younger.

As angry as Paula had been before, now she was seething.

"Get out!" Paula screamed at the boy, who ran. "Now you…whore…where is he? In here perhaps?"

Paula sashayed to the bathroom door, proud of herself. Della was still regarding her, unimpressed, when she recognized a crumpled man hiding behind the door jamb with a camera poised in his hand. Della pulled the sheet up higher.

Paula started banging on the door, "Come out of there! Do you hear me? Come out of there this instant!"

Perry, having met Paula Gordon numerous times, knew instinctively what was going on. In extremely high spirits, and wanting to teach that atrocious woman to leave his girl alone, Perry slightly damp and very naked stepped out of the bathroom, a towel pretending to cover the important parts—more or less.

As Paula's jaw hit the floor, the man lifted his camera. Perry Mason was still quick of hand and "sacrificed" his towel, which floated up in the air and settled over the erstwhile photographer's head.

"Not if you don't want to end up in jail," Perry turned to Della. "Did he take any pictures of you?"

"No, Judge Mason, he did not."

"Judge Mason?" The man asked from beneath the wet towel, which he was still trying to remove from his camera strap as he darted from the room.

"Cover yourself!" Paula screamed at Perry, "Before I call the hotel detective."

Perry clasped his hands behind his back and lifted up on his toes a few times.

"Madam, _you_ intruded on _me_. I do believe that the hotel detective would toss you out on your, uh, derriere—not me."

Della still sitting in the bed had a hand over her mouth trying to not incite Paula further by laughing in her red, contorted face. It was one of the hardest things Della had ever asked of herself especially considering Perry's current state.

Never had Perry exhibited such a lack of physical modesty—not since he had gained weight anyway—and Della was enjoying is immensely. Indeed it was going to mean a repeat of her performance last night. But she would let him eat first.

"Dear, perhaps a pillow?" Della smiled beatifically into his hurt face. "Oh, not for me! I could look at you like this all day. I _plan_ to…among other things."

Perry smiled again.

Having turned away from Perry now, Paula spat through clenched teeth, "Where is my husband?"

As Della was about to inform Mrs. Gordon of her husband's golf date, they heard a voice in the next room.

"Right here."

Della covered up in earnest now. Perry did not. He was taking diabolical delight in the scene.

"Hmmm. What have we here?" Arthur in head-to-toe pastel, a pink shirt and pink, green and blue checked golf trousers, asked his now cowering wife.

"I…I…I…"

"Eye-yi-yi is right, dear… Shall we?"

"But I…"

"Pretty stupid of you, too—and get a new detective. That pimple-faced teenager in the hall is an idiot and an embarrassment. All of the other kids' detectives make fun of him."

"Della, I'm giving you a raise."

"No thank you, Arthur. You gave me a week off."

"No, I gave you four days off. I need you back on Friday, Della." Arthur instructed Perry sternly, "I need her back on Friday, Mason."

"I know. The Chinese. She'll be there," Perry smiled. "Now if you two don't mind I'm a little chilly."

Arthur tipped his golf cap to Della in the bed, "Della, if you think I was impressed with him last night, it's nothing compared with how impressed I am this morning…"

Arthur winked, making her cheeks go pink.

Paula was not following, staring Della Street down with such venom it took Perry aback. Angry now, Arthur hooked his wife's arm with the golf club he had been carrying over his shoulder and dragged her from the room.

Perry and Della started to laugh and when they finally heard the door shut Perry put it best.

"Breakfast?"

_**-DSPM-**_

It took some maneuvering on Perry's part but he did not have to return to San Francisco until Thursday morning and they managed to keep Della's suite until then.

"I'm going to need clothes," she sighed at one point, picking through her overnight case.

"No you're not," he said with an evil grin.

She didn't.

_**-DSPM-**_

On Thursday they flew to San Francisco. Having a late lunch at one of their favorite restaurants near the courthouse, they were approached by the young lady from the photos. Perry, deeply uncomfortable, stood and introduced Della to Tracy Cotton, a reporter who was "going places," just not right away.

At the moment Miss Cotton lingered at their table's edge, clearly unhappy to see them together and she had the nerve to show it in front of his companion of almost 35 years.

"Gee, I thought you were an _old_ rumor," started "Brenda Star."

Della, her self-effacing, funny self, joked, "Sometimes I think I am dear!"

As Miss Cotton drove the conversation further downhill, Miss Street batted away every insult with grace and humor. Miss Cotton said that she hoped she was as attractive _as her mother and Miss Street at their age_… and offered how lucky she was to work for Perry all of those years since most _secretaries_ _didn't get such interesting work_.

There was really no need for Perry to have reached over and taken her hand so obviously but she was glad that he had. Della knew that she would not be seeing this young lady in the paper anymore; not with Perry anyway. In what she had come to know as his silent rebellion against certain rude females, he did not stand when she left the table.

Thursday evening he put her on a plane back to Los Angeles, early so she could run to the office and soothe an increasingly crazy Arthur but not before warning her that ultimately Paula Gordon was going to cause Della trouble and making her promise not to take any abuse from that seriously spoiled and unbalanced woman.

Standing at the airport they promised to do better at tending that garden that was now 30 years and still growing. But that was all that they promised, other than an extended trip for their anniversary in December and visiting a minimum of once a month. They were adults and the life they had made for themselves and each other was not an easy one; once again their "commitment" was deferred.

When Della got off the plane she was thrilled to see Paul there, unexpectedly, to pick her up.

"Paul! How nice!"

Paul gave Della a kiss as he took her overnight bag off her shoulder then relieved her of the hanging bag, and train case. When she jokingly offered her handbag, he held up a polite hand.

"No thank you, Dear," Paul smirked. "A man has his limits."

Della laughed but was very appreciative, "You didn't have to pick me up, you know."

"My pleasure…and I was here on a job anyway…"

"You were?" queried Della who enjoyed hearing the details of all of his jobs. "What are you doing at the airport?"

Paul twisted his face into a sideways smiling, "Oh, just following someone."

Della, who had to run a bit to keep up with her fast-moving Godson, leaned in conspiratorially, "Who are we looking for?"

Paul was smiling broadly now, "Oh no one. We found her."

"We did?"

"Un huh…"

"Paul Drake, Jr. you are driving me mad! Who is she?"

"Oh just a nice lady who works for a high-powered executive whose wife thinks he's fooling around with her.

They had reached the curb but Della stopped cold.

"Paul, no," Della's hand flew to her mouth.

"Paul, yes!" laughed the young man. "You know I should recuse myself but, hey, if they had done five minutes worth of research…but they didn't so, for now, I am your tail! Get in," he said stowing the bags in the back seat of his Jeep.

Della stepped up and into the "car" as gracefully as she could manage.

Elbow on her purse Della just shook her head.

"Wait until we tell your Godfather…" Della was smiling.

"Oh he knows…"

"He does?"

Paul just gave her that dopey grin she loved so much.

"Who do you think told me to go ahead and take the gig?"

Della and Paul, Jr. laughed as they drove away. In her lap Della babied a rare bottle of Maison J. Balluteaud Cognac Grande Champagne Louis XV 1888; a well-deserved prize Perry picked out for Arthur who had given _them_ a wonderful gift throwing them together as he had.

The next time he would do that it would not be on purpose and not the way any of them would have had it. But the next time Arthur Gordon brought Perry Mason back to Della Street, it would be for good.

_**~~More ahead…~~**_

_**Music**_

"_What Am I Hear For?"_ Ella Fitzgerald and it's on iTunes and damn hard to find but it's on "Ella Swings Brightly with Nelson" (Riddle) She collaborated on two albums with him and they are both GEMS.

_**Note:**_

A word about the eight year split, which may make it seem less random. It is not _California's_ Appellate Division Perry leaves for but the United States Court of Appeals, _a Federal court_. One level below the U. S. Supreme Court, it is broken into regions across the country with its largest region based in San Francisco. "Returns" should have been clearer about this.

This is a court befitting his stature, unlike a state appellate division, and has been a "farm team" of sorts, for the Supremes. Knowing this it's easier to understand how much was at stake both when Perry left Della and, more importantly, when he "returns" to defend her.


End file.
